21: Inception
by Math Girl
Summary: A look into how things started, and how they changed. Alternate universe. Now completed.
1. 1: Summons

First edit.

**INCEPTION**

1: Summons

_Kunsan AFB, Korea; September 12, 2060-_

Scott Aaron Tracy was a great deal less recovered than he tried to make out, but as a fighter pilot and flight leader… and newly-minted Major… he didn't like to appear weak, or troubled. So, he hid the limp and the bad back; anything at all to keep flying. But it was a fact of life that high speed ejections, blasting through the canopy of a disintegrating fighter jet, tended to mess you up. On the whole, he'd been lucky, though; he might have lost that leg, or, like Captain Mercer, his life.

At the time, he hadn't really considered his actions; he'd simply done what no one else was in a position to do. It was the United States Congress, not Major Tracy, who saw fit to call it "courage, above and beyond the call of duty." But that had been months ago…

_This_ patrol had been peaceful enough, ending in the wintry light of a Korean dawn with six perfect landings on runway 180. Everyone safe and accounted for, and all planes running well.

The tarmac glistened with partly-iced puddles and waver-y, reflected lights, with here and there patches of thin fog slipping between concrete buildings and red-leaved trees. The sky above seemed pure, distant and pale; fresh washed.

Scott's breath misted as he tramped along from flightline to Ops Center, a little behind the rest of the pilots. Not that he didn't enjoy their boastful give-and-take, usually; just that he wanted time to stretch those damn back muscles.

'_Going to be a cold day…' _he thought, shoving gloved hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket, green nylon helmet bag dangling from the crook of his right arm. The flight suit didn't offer much insulation, even with thermal underwear beneath.

Sarah Shelley flashed Scott a long-toothed grin over one shoulder. She was his wingman, and somewhat less than totally respectful.

"Pick it up, Grandpa!" she teased, drawing snorts of laughter from the others, and Scott, himself. "All those medals and decorations slowing you down, old man?"

"Naw…" Lieutenant Grant drawled, off to one side with rainbow-slicked puddle water all over his black boots, "It's the weight of those big, brass b…"

Captain Shelley threw a punch at the junior officer, gently reminding him that there was a lady present. She was only one of the guys when she felt like it, Sarah Shelley. A little too squared-off and hard faced to be pretty, with curling red hair and a loud laugh, she was fully the equal of any pilot present, except Scott (and this was a good thing).

Had she been any more feminine, her handsome flight leader would have been plunged into blank and useless confusion. Pretty, confident women gave him fits. Always had.

Dogfights, yes. Flirting… _hell,_ no.

"Actually," Scott replied, bringing the conversation back to more important matters, "I was planning the post flight de-brief. Pays to be prepared, gentlemen… and lady."

That settled them all down a bit, as each pilot present mentally replayed their actions during the long patrol. Joking around was fine, in its place, but as a flight leader, Scott Tracy had a duty to coach and instruct, one he took _very _seriously.

He got a surprise in the Ops building, though, in the form of a letter and Colonel Albert Shaw, the squadron commander. As soon as they stepped off the morning-wet flightline and into the heated building, Scott's superior officer strode briskly forward, yellow envelope in hand.

"Major, I need a word with you, please."

The _'now'_ was unspoken, but still plainly there. Scott directed the others into the debriefing room, and then followed Shaw into a small break area, which the grey-haired colonel cleared with a single, fierce glare. Steaming coffee mugs in hand, about half a dozen pilots suddenly recalled vital errands and hastened away, nearly tripping over themselves in the process. Moments later, Scott and Colonel Shaw were alone amid vending machines and microwaves, a muted television and the pungent ghost of spilled coffee and cigarettes.

"Sir?" Scott prodded uncertainly, when the others had gone.

The older man tapped an official letter against the palm of one hand, looking less angry than betrayed.

"New orders are in, Major. Seems that a request you filed to resign your commission has been accepted. Under the circumstances, I can't argue with your decision to get out… you've certainly earned the right, and a medal of honor trumps colonel's birds, every time… but I believe I deserved notification, at least."

_Resign…?_

Wordlessly, Scott accepted the letter… which upon examination proved to be legal… and which mentioned both financial conflict of interest, medical issues, and the business needs of his father, Jeff Tracy.

_Dad_ was pulling him out of the Air Force? Away from flying? For _what?_ A nice, safe corner office in the damn London Branch?

Scott felt his face reddening. He could protest, of course. Fight this clear to Congress… most of whose members Jeff Tracy had helped elect or contributed funds to. Or, he could call his father and demand an explanation.

"Colonel Shaw," Scott said aloud, after quietly clearing his throat, "I'm not sure exactly what's going on, here, but I can assure you that there's been a mistake. I have no intention of leaving the Air Force, Sir, or the Wolf Pack. Just, give me a chance to straighten this out, Colonel, before you sign anything."

Shaw's heavy eyebrows drew together, but he managed a very brief, wintry smile, and a tight nod.

"I hope like hell you're right, Major. It's no stretch to admit we'd hate to lose you."

"Yes, Sir," Scott replied stoutly, meeting his superior's hard gaze. "I'll take care of it, Sir."

Yet, less than a week later, Major Scott Aaron Tracy was on his way; not home, but to some fly-speck island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a million miles from nowhere.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Local FBI headquarters, Newark, NJ; interrogation room 5-_

Carl Whitehead, Special Agent in Charge of the Newark division, stamped into the small white room where a young man in his late teens slouched in a rigid metal chair. The detainee's arms were folded across his thin chest and his head was down, face half-concealed by long, blond hair… legs stretched far under the table. He did not look up when Whitehead entered the room, nor did he speak. There was an untouched food tray on the table before him, the third the kid had rejected since being brought in.

Whitehead didn't bother closing the door behind him, though it would have made him feel good to scare the little shit. But in this case, luck, influence and a very large fortune were all against Agent Whitehead.

"Looks like you're free to go… Mister Tracy. All charges dropped, investigation closed, files to be sealed; just like that."

Frustrated, Whitehead slammed both hands down against the tabletop, making the boy's food tray jump, even if _he _didn't. A plastic spoon bounced a little in its tray slot, and a lidded cup of apple juice nearly tipped over. The young hacker, however, did nothing but glance upward through bars of ice-pale hair, apparently quite bored. Whitehead's scowl deepened further.

"Before you walk out that door, I want to leave you with one very important thought, _Mister_ Tracy: If I or any of my agents… hell, the city _dog catcher…_ detect your presence on the internet, _ever_ again, the deal's off. I'll have your worthless ass _buried_ under this building beside Jimmy F-king Hoffa. Got it?"

This time, the young man looked directly at Whitehead, without discernable interest. His eyes were very blue, and utterly expressionless. The captured hacker said,

"Yeah. Whatever. Pleasure doing confinement with you, Officer Friendly."

Worn by his self-imposed fast, John Tracy got carefully to his feet. He needed caffeine, or a few dozen alertness tabs, far more than he did food.

He'd made certain promises to one of his father's attorneys, though, and in return secured release for Denice and Rick, as well as himself. Drew was gone; probably forever. He'd sold his soul to Jeff Tracy, and the hell of it was, this FBI drone in his bad toupee seemed to think that John had somehow won. He had no idea. No idea, at all…

Shrugging, John Matthew Tracy looked once more away.

"See you," he mumbled, sincerely hoping _not._

Two days later, he'd left Princeton, summoned to a private island by his powerful, _inescapable _father.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Burlington, Wyoming-_

In the fall of 2060, Virgil Tracy was quite probably the handsomest, most popular boy at his school. A gifted athlete, with an endearingly earnest way about him, he was liked by everyone and loved by more than a few. With Scott away in the Air Force, saving entire cities, and John burrowed deep into the stacks at some weird, pansy college for future liberals, Virgil was just about all that the local girls had left to hang their dreams on. Of course, he was already spoken for. _Twice._ Shari and Teena Redfeather were still his girlfriends, and they, too, attended Burlington Senior High School.

They came to all of his games and practices, even more faithfully than the college football scouts. Same as Granddad had done… until the heart attack. That was hard; a big, aching hole Virgil had no idea how to fill, especially with Grandma Tracy gone so quiet and sad. Virgil would have liked to talk about missing Granddad… his hoarse, coal-shaft-deep voice, his fishing advice and good sense… but the twins had problems of their own, and he didn't want to burden Grandma.

His brother John had been a surprisingly good confidante, back in the day. Not because John had any answers (he didn't), but because he could sit still for hours and just _listen_. Scott would hear him out for precisely three minutes (you could set a watch by him) then offer suggestions in quick, decisive bursts.

…And, _damn,_ he missed them all! Granddad, John, Scott… nothing and no-one was the same around here without them. Bereft and doing his best to hide it, Virgil handled things his own way, setting up an easel in the barn beside John's black car, and painting what he felt, but couldn't say. A lot of greys and blues and deep, downward brush strokes, with the broken parts of a person hidden in swirling dark clouds. He'd actually cut practice to finish the picture (which ended up in a corner of the hay barn, face to the back wall).

…And there was another source of trouble: football. See, Virgil wasn't merely good. He had All-American, professional caliber _talent, _and his coaches, family and teammates all knew it. Virgil Edward Tracy was the best running back in five states, scattering defensive linemen like chickens and carrying the ball for 1000 yards rushing and 28 touchdowns the year before. The college scouts were circling him like buzzards over an abandoned calf, and he should have been ecstatic… but, instead, all Virgil felt was queasy. His stomach flopped and his tongue grew thick in his mouth whenever he had to speak with a college scout, none of whom he promised anything.

Friday nights, he'd bust tackles like a bull elk, racking up points for his now state-champion team, the Wildcats.

"Number 34," the announcer would crow. "The hand-off's to number 34, Virgil Tracy!"

And he'd take off, seeing the dust-dry world lurching past through the bars of a helmet; painted white lines, green plastic turf, screaming faces and bloodied uniforms. Weaving, twisting, absorbing cannon-shot hits, he'd strain for the end zone and six more points.

Often, he got through. Other times, they caught up and piled on, elbowing, clawing and kicking in an effort to make him cough up that ball before (thank God) the referee's whistle blew.

There'd be bandages, ointments and shots, deep, grinding exhaustion and pain so intense that he performed his chores the next day like a robot, talking himself through each slow movement.

On the way home, his Granddad would once have gone over the entire game; one hand on the truck's steering wheel, the other holding a cigarette and gesturing out the window like an orchestra conductor.

All through town, horns would blare and lights would flash, as the local folks, his neighbors and friends, recognized the green truck, and who was inside. Only Troy Coulter, the starting quarterback, received more adulation. And all that next Monday, as he strode from class to class, he'd hear…

"Hey, Virge!"

"Virge, great game!"

"That was some carry, Man! Eighty yards, straight up the middle!"

The twins ran block for him, days like that, Shari being especially good at distracting everyone's attention while Virgil retreated to his locker, whispering to the piled-up books and papers,

"I don't want to do this, anymore."

His fingers were too stiff from all the protective tape and beatings to play piano, but he could still hold a brush, sort of. Truth is, he was in hell with a Wyoming zip code; one he could have exited right now, here, today, if he'd just had the guts to take off the red-and-white uniform and walk away, letting everyone who loved him down.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

He exchanged his books. Geometry for Spanish (which he would have had a 'C' in, had the teacher, Mr. Marks, not been willing to wink and say, "I know you've got a busy practice schedule, Virgil, so what say we just drop those last three test grades?").

Slamming his locker, sore and tired clear through, Virgil Tracy put his neutral, 'friendly' expression back on and turned again to run the gauntlet. Only, there was Teena Redfeather, the student office assistant, with an expression of big-eyed tragedy and what looked like a faxed withdrawal form. Pushing dark, long bangs from her wide face, the girl said,

"Virgil… you're _leaving?"_

Virgil took the paper in his bruised and swollen hands. It was, indeed, an official grades-release and withdrawal form, signed by the principal, Grandma and Jeff Tracy.

Like rain. Like a rope tossed down from above, with Scott and John at the pulling end.

Too numb to celebrate or even to hear the anxious words of those who'd gathered round him in the paw-painted hallway, Virgil Tracy merely stood there.

Maybe they hustled him straight to the office like a torch-wielding movie mob, and maybe he got some kind of explanation, but not until three days later, when he sat upright in the window seat of his dad's private jet, did it finally start to sink in: he was free.


	2. 2: Arrival

Hey. )

**2: Arrival**

_The Island-_

Scott Tracy flew _himself_ to the island (a former atomic test site, if squadron scuttlebutt was at all accurate). He took a private plane from the Tokyo hangar, not one of his father's corporate jets. He was loaded for bear, too; rehearsing all the way across the Pacific exactly what he intended to say.

…Except that Jeff Tracy wasn't present to rage at. After a very long, muttering-tense, stomach-clenched flight, Scott found the place and greased his Lear Jet onto the island's little runway. Climbing forth after filling out his flight log, he found no-one waiting for him but Kyrano, one of his father's many foreign employees; a man he knew but slightly

The grey-haired retainer met him at the foot of the Lear's boarding steps, his round face as gravely serene as the Dalai Lama's.

"Welcome, Mister Scott," Kyrano murmured, bowing slightly. "Your father regrets being unable to greet you personally, but he has been unavoidably detained, elsewhere."

And then the old fellow put forth a hand for Scott's rucksack, the picture of tropical propriety in his flowered shirt, pressed khakis and sandals. No lei, though.

Expecting a long argument and a short stay, Scott hadn't packed much beyond a few toiletries and a change of underwear. He was almost embarrassed to allow this elder… and much smaller man… to take his luggage.

"Um… thanks, really. I can carry my own bag, Mister K…"

The servant forestalled him with a gracefully lifted hand.

"It is simply, 'Kyrano', Sir."

A warm, salty breeze mussed both their heads as Scott replied, shifting his stance a bit,

"Okay… 'Kyrano' it is, as long as you drop the 'Sir'. Neither of us is in uniform."

(True enough; Kyrano was casual, Scott wearing a crisp white shirt, slightly open at the neck, grey trousers and mirror-polished black shoes.)

"Very well, Mister Scott. I shall attempt to reserve 'Sir' for the most formal of public occasions. And now, if you please, I will show you to the house."

With that, Kyrano indicated a small electric cart, parked sideways on a nearby square of crushed gravel. It looked like the bastard offspring of a golf cart and one of the old 4-wheelers he and his brothers had used to take trash to the fire pit, back in Wyoming. It was painted white, with a green-striped canvas roof and the Tracy Aerospace sigil on both doors.

Having won the luggage battle, Scott hauled his own bag to the cart and stowed it in back, saying,

"So, uh… when's dad planning to show?"

Fresh confusion arose, then, for Kyrano insisted upon holding the passenger door for Scott and closing it again once the fighter pilot had settled himself. This, and riding rather than driving, made him deeply uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to all the fuss and coddling. But Kyrano affected not to notice, replying smoothly,

"Alas, Mister Scott… this I cannot say. Vital matters have called your father once again to Manhattan, but he will return as soon as business allows, and he bade me make you welcome in the meantime."

Right. Scott heaved a deep and bewildered sigh; inhaling a perfumed mix of sea air and tropical blooms. A few moments of shifting around finally won his sore back a respite.

(It was often difficult to find comfort on soft seating… but he'd ejected twice and been sky-hooked once, compressing his spine a little more each time. Not the car's fault that his back hurt.)

Sensing his problem, Kyrano pointed to the dashboard, saying,

"There is a button on the passenger-side console, Mister Scott, that when activated will provide your cushion with heat and lumbar support."

…All this whilst expertly backing the little cart.

"Huh…? Oh. Yeah, thanks. That's much better. Just an old golf injury. Nothing serious."

Maybe he'd have washed out of the Air Force, anyway, or been stuffed behind a Washington desk, somewhere. Food for thought?

His father's manservant drove them from the sunlit beach-side landing strip (all booming water and humming sea caves) to the dense, green-wet-cawing shade of a tropical jungle. Tired as he was, Scott could have used a nap, but instead found himself looking around, mildly shocked at all this noisy, leaf-shaking activity (sure hadn't seemed this lively from the air).

Back in 1946, the former US Army Air Corps had allegedly detonated a small atomic bomb here… but you couldn't have guessed it, now. Perhaps his father's purchase hadn't been quite so crazy, after all.

They followed a switch-backed trail up the side of the island's volcano, through a gold-shafted cathedral of trees. Bright birds exploded through the foliage in great flocks. Big, waxy blossoms exhaled pollen. Creepers entwined the vast trees, while fallen leaves lay as thick upon the ground as snow in far-off Kansas. Very weird; to Scott Tracy, very foreign.

The road terminated by… well, charitably, Scott supposed you could call it a house. 'Ugly' was more like it. _Big_ and ugly. Modular, sort of, with twin swimming pools and a kind of pedestal-mounted doughnut building rising above the whole mess like a toadstool. Very much amazed, Scott leaned forward and stared.

"Wow," he said, shaking his head. On the bright side, at least dad had picked a remote island on which to construct this architectural meltdown.

But Kyrano was speaking, again; saying something which all at once chased away the pilot's distraction.

"And so, in the space of a very few days, when your brother has arrived…"

_Brother?_ That pulled Scott up short and sharp, like a horse reigned away from a snake hole.

"Brother?" he repeated aloud. "Coming _here?_ Which one?"

Kyrano guided his electric cart into a covered parking area, then cut off the motor with a gentle touch.

"Mister John has also been summoned to the island, and will shortly arrive. Arrangements have further been made to bring Master Virgil, although it is intended that he initially spend time in Tahiti, for the completion of his schooling."

Scott pondered this bit of intelligence, not even fighting Kyrano for control of the door handle and luggage, this time; distracted as a bear with a locked food cooler.

All three of them…? Damn. This, he decided, was serious. That his father, after all these years, would reclaim his three sons at all was fairly startling. That he'd have them whisked away to the back of beyond, even more so. Seriously; _what the hell?_

He followed Kyrano up a set of landscaped stairs, past wrought-iron gates, flower pots, benches and bird feeders. His mood had changed; possibly because the walk and modest climb were easing the kinks out of his back, but more likely because of the welcome news about John and Virgil. Stupid, knuckle-headed dumb-asses, both of them. One so deep into hacking that he probably had chips for brains, by now. The other a confirmed jock who lived, breathed and ate football (and painted a little, on the side).

Probably, they'd start arguing, and probably he'd have to knock their damn heads together. He hadn't seen them since Granddad's funeral, over six months before. Then, Virgil had been too stunned for more than a word or two, John entirely silent, Scott still trapped in his own private hell of pain meds and undeserved recognition. But this time, things would be different.

Scott was actually smiling by the time Kyrano bowed him into, not one room, but a whole suite (as big, altogether, as the house on McConnell Air Force Base).

"Dinner, Mister Scott, will be served at 7:30 PM." And then, bowing low, "With your permission, Sir…?"

"What? Dinner? Yeah… 7:30's fine, Kyrano. I could eat a steer; horns, hooves and brand."

He took the limp canvas rucksack from Kyrano, who smiled in response to Scott's mischievous grin.

"Hopefully, Mister Scott, your esteemed appetite will be sated by offerings more humble than whole cattle. We have only, tonight, Duck l'Orange, a light onion soup and fresh pineapple."

Beat the hell out of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, anyway… though John wouldn't have agreed. Speaking of which…

"The menu sounds fine, Kyrano. But my brother will want something a little less fancy."

Kyrano paused in the act of withdrawing, one slim hand upon the threshold.

"Which brother would Mister Scott be referring to? Mister John or Master Virgil?"

"Mis… _John,_ I mean. My brother, John. He's, um… kind of funny, about food. He likes things very simple, and served on separate plates. He's fussy as hell, actually, and if he ever manages to get married (which I doubt) his wife'll probably kill him two days after the honeymoon. Anyway, when in doubt, you can't go wrong with macaroni and cheese, frozen pizza, or almost anything out of a snack bag."

Kyrano winced, as though Scott had just uttered a string of filthy curses.

"I see," the manservant replied, with a long suffering sigh. "And Master Virgil? Has he, too, the so-particular feeding requirements?"

Scott snorted.

"Virge? Hell, no. Hit something over the head and drop it on his plate. He'll snap it right down."

For some reason, this prospect failed to delight Tracy Island's head chef.

"Indeed. I thank you for the information, Mister Scott."

(As he would have thanked a doctor for news of incipient fulminating death-pox.)

Once Kyrano finally left, Scott spent quite a few minutes wandering around his palatial sitting room, theater, bedroom, vanity, bathroom, closets and balcony. In a word: _big_. In another one: _expensive_. There were probably whole gross national products, here. Just looking over the footwear rack, Scott shook his head. If he _ever_ owned that many shoes, someone needed to punch him.

Back out in the main closet, again, he folded and put away his spare tee-shirt and white briefs. Just to make this clothing amphitheater look a little less empty, he also hung up his rucksack.

He was very restless; barely tasting Kyrano's artistically presented dinner, or the cigar and fine brandy that followed. Didn't sleep much, either. At this point, whether dad showed up or not was immaterial, his feelings about the Air Force on hold. His brothers were coming, and the only thing that could have made his situation better was if Granddad were still alive… Grandma, too, on her way… and Gordon finally located. If they were (almost) a family, again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John had also chosen to pilot himself to the island. Watching that morning from the graveled parking lot, Scott judged his brother's landing to be a little rough… but maybe John hadn't been getting as much flight time, what with college, and all. Have to talk to him, about that…

The sleek King Air came in a bit steeply, bouncing slightly on touch down. Scott quelled the urge to wave as the jet hurtled past, stirring his hair and clothing. The King Air's tires squealed and smoked against sun-heated tarmac. They lifted once, and then made solid contact, ending an even longer flight than Scott's. The plane stopped just short of the runway's end, her engine noise fading to a pallid whine, then a tired hum.

Recalling his brother's meticulous flight log entries, Scott didn't rush the plane. Hands in his pockets, he sort of strolled forward, giving John plenty of time.

About ten minutes later, the boarding hatch was lowered, creating a set of stairs. John stepped forth, looking like Death on a particularly hard day. He was paler than Scott remembered him, and a hell of a lot thinner, with stupid-long hair and a perfectly blank expression. He came about halfway down the steps and then paused, glancing at Scott and then looking everywhere else for a bit. When he made eye-contact again and more or less held it, Scott felt free to lope forward.

"Hey, Little brother," he greeted his stone-faced sibling. "How's it going?"

"Good," John replied, briefly shaking Scott's proffered hand. "Yourself?"

His not-very-surprised-to-see-him brother hadn't any luggage, just a paper White Castle sack with a few leftover cheeseburgers in it. Scott immediately relieved him of those (not real beef, in that day and age, but still pretty tasty). Then he said, around a big mouthful of cold food,

"…'bout the same. New address, is all."

"Yeah," John looked around himself once more, taking in dark rock, velvet-green forest and thundering surf. "About that…"

Grinning, Scott gave his brother's black-clad shoulder a fond shake.

"Not into dad's whole 'Lord of the Flies' thing, I take it?" he teased.

"Not exactly," John followed him down the boarding steps, pausing long enough to fold up and lock the hatch. "…Just wondering where he's got James Bond tied up."

Right. _Dad_, with a secret volcano base. Funny.

He sort of shoved John; halfway reproving, but mostly just glad that his brother had finally made it. Together, they walked to the electric cart, which John regarded with something close to disgust. (He liked big, fast American cars, not wind-up toys.)

"Yeah. This is going to be a real blast. I can tell."

John was quiet through most of the ride up, commenting colorfully when something that looked like a huge rat scuttled across the road in front of their cart. Since that incident with the bear, he'd grown deeply wary of nature…

And there certainly was a lot of nature around _here_, much of it hairy or slithering. John sat folded up in the passenger seat, arms across his thin chest, staring directly ahead… until they reached the top of the winding road. There, he saw something even scarier.

"Shit," John blurted, on first glimpsing the house. "What the hell is _that?"_

Scott shrugged fatalistically.

"Home, sweet home?" he suggested.

They parked to share the last cheeseburger and stare up at Jeff's mansion.

"No, Scott. This is dad's brain on drugs."

"…or major money." His older brother cut in, munching away at a last bite.

John, however, was not impressed.

"He's doing alright, I guess."

Meaning what? That John had somehow done better? Scott glanced skeptically at his brother's cheap cotton tee-shirt, sneakers and blue jeans. Yeah, the piece-of-crap wrist watch, key-on-a-thread necklace and long hair spoke volumes about the state of John's trust fund. Scott changed the subject.

"Look at the bright side," he said. "While you're here, you don't have to pick up your own underwear, there's a pool, and the food's free."

By this time, they'd risen from the car and started toward the house.

"You're staying?" John asked, his voice nearly buried by squeaks, rustles and soft footfalls.

"_Hell_, no. Not me. I've got an Air Force career to get back to. A mission. You?"

John's gaze dropped to the flag-stoned path at his feet.

"Yeah. Guess I sort of _have_ to. I promised." And he kicked at a pile of leaves like a frustrated kid.

Scott shot him another, darting look; a quick, hummingbird-sip of a glance.

"Everything okay?" he ventured, knowing somehow damn well that it _wasn't._

John didn't reply with words. Instead, his head lowered further, a curtain of sun-spotted fair hair swinging forward to hide his grave face. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged, at once icy and miserable.

"Well…" Scott unlatched a screechy, wrought-iron gate, scraping a wide semi-circle across the stone path. There were flowers and spider webs tangled amid the bars. "…I'm sure things'll get better. And, uh… I can talk to dad, if you like."

But John shook his head, no.

"Thanks. I can handle it."

He'd never been very forthcoming, and Scott wasn't about to push the matter. Not yet, anyway.

In the few days before Virgil showed up, John wandered listlessly from room to room, afflicted with something that Scott had never quite known how to jolly him out of. Never touching a computer, he seemed most intrigued by the island's main generator.

"Weird," John muttered distractedly. It was just about nightfall, and he and Scott stood leaning against a rail atop the 'round house', gazing across the mountainside at a half-sealed cavern packed with thumping machinery.

"What? The power plant?" (Scott was well used to it, by now.)

"Yeah." They could hear its bass rumble and occasional shrill whirrs, even from here. Geothermal, probably… though where the steam was being diverted was something of a mystery.

"That thing's producing an ass-load of power, Scott. Way more than he needs for just a house and airstrip. Wonder what for?"

"Christmas lights," Scott decided. "This year, he's _damn_ well gonna win the neighborhood roof-decorating contest."

John sort of coughed; the odd, short explosion that served him for a laugh.

"No, it's a beacon. He's summoning an alien battle fleet. Bet you that's where he's got Bond tied up, too. We ought to go check."

Scott gave his brother a ringing back-slap, feeling all at once like a sneaky teenager.

"Why not? Sounds like a decent hike, if nothing else… but let's wait till Virge gets here. He'll be furious if he misses something good."

John smiled at the ground, saying,

"Yeah, okay."

And then they went down to dinner; some kind of clear soup and pepper-corn-studded lamb roast, with a Blanc Mange for desert. Even John ate... a little.

Afterward, they accidentally discovered a girl.


	3. 3: Gathering

Many thanks to Tikatu, Eternal Density, Boleyn, Sam1, Cath, Zeilfanaat and MsHobgoblin for their comments and encouragement. (And sorry so late...)

**3: Gathering**

_Tracy Island-_

During the day, warmed by molten-sugar sunshine, or shaded with piled-up clouds (glowing white and golden at their edges, with bruised-blue undersides) there were distractions enough. Exploring the mansion, for one; figuring out the satellite television network, for another. It had been programmed to pick up C-Span, WNN and all of the major business channels, to which the brothers soon added ESPN, movies and music.

Scott fell asleep easiest with the TV on; John, not at all. Not that he wasn't tired…

In the several nights following his arrival, John retired dutifully to bed after dinner, a stiff drink, and the action movie of Scott's choice. Didn't really matter which show. Pilot-actors pretending to shoot each other in the air wasn't much different from gangster-actors firing blanks on the ground. Lots of noise and bad dialogue, either way. It kept Scott happy, though, and covered John's many silences.

Back at Princeton, he'd have spent most of the night on his computer, data-mining. Drew would have pulled him off, eventually… but no more.

This night, John lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring at an already memorized ceiling. He hadn't slept alone in nearly three years, and maybe the change came hard. Maybe he missed her, or something. Whatever the reason, he felt bewildered; dismembered.

This bed was enormous, and empty. That one had been small, crowded by two people's tangled limbs and sleep-tousled hair. She'd been restless, tossing and mumbling, rolling over to drowsily kiss whatever part of him she could reach, her various rings and piercings cool against his flesh, her lips and warm touch bathwater-soft.

He recalled whispered conversations, slim hands sliding along his back, the hot splash of pleasure, and soft cries inexpertly muffled against discovery. But…

The last thing she'd said to him, peering through dense black hair with her hard, garnet-contact gaze, had been,

"The _hell_ with you, then. Stay. See if I care. But you're an idiot, Tracy. You're not going to be able to help them, and _I'm_ not going to jail for your stupid ass! I'm _not_."

And, with that, Autumn Drew had left, disappearing into the Trenton Underground while he went back to Rockefeller Campus by another route; buying the girl who now hated him just a little more time. Of course, he'd been caught, cuffed and brought in. And, of course, he'd contacted his father's attorneys. What else could he do?

John sat up on the huge, crisply-sheeted plateau of a bed. Opening up the top drawer of a massive teak nightstand, he pulled out his cell phone, thinking, maybe… Well, maybe she wasn't still mad. He wondered, just then, if females always ran off when they were angry, and what you were expected to do about it, when they did.

Wasn't going to find out tonight, though. Not here, anyhow; no service. The phone's power-up graphic displayed no signal, at all. Outside, possibly? Worth a try, he supposed…

John was mostly still dressed. All that he'd done before lying down was to take his shoes and shirt off. His rooms felt far too big and impersonal for the vulnerability of boxer shorts; like a hospital waiting room, or a massive hotel.

He fetched a new tee-shirt and jerked it on (Kyrano had done a great deal of clothes ordering, for all three Tracy brothers), but he didn't bother with shoes. He just left, finding his way out of the pent-breath quiet house by silver moonlight and puddled lamp-glow.

Outside, he followed the surf noise; the surge, pound and sucking roar leading him through dim gardens and twin pool decks, down a long flight of carved steps, to the beach. There was a semi-circular seawall, composed of huge chunks of black rock and broken concrete. Before trying his phone again, for some reason, John chose to clamber out along the wall, following the Moon's splintered reflection.

Several times, he nearly fell (and maybe he wanted to). The stones were slippery, washed with spuming water and draped with weeds and slime. Not easy to maintain one's grip, out there, but he managed, coming at last to a gap in the wall, directly opposite the big house; as far in this direction as he could go.

The sea was loud in his ears, its salt-tang and throaty grumble filling the world and jarring his tilted perch. Overhead, there was the Moon with thousands of stars, crowded together in strange configurations.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, again. Got a signal, this time; one bar's worth. The number was memorized, no trouble at all to key in… except that he had no idea what to say.

_'Hey, Drew. I'm stuck on the island of Dr. Moreau, forever. Hope you're not still pissed, and that the fugitive thing works out okay.'_

Or…

_'Drew, I know you think what I did was dumb, and, yeah, actually it was. But…'_

But, what…?

_'But, I'm sorry…?'_

'_But, I didn't realize how important this thing was, and now it's too late to fix what's happened?'_

Anyway, the signal was gone, some satellite or another having ducked below the horizon, again. Not that it mattered. Not that, even with a full battery, strong signal and a damn Hollywood script, he'd have known how to handle this mess. Even had she been here, now, in front of him…

And, all at once, everything outside (thundering waves, gliding moon and shaken rock) combined with a growing, sharp… _something_… inside him, and John reacted violently. As hard as he could, he threw the phone; as though loneliness, regret and despair could be hurled along with it, drowned in restless black water.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Virgil was due to show up that afternoon, so Scott woke early, climbing out of bed stiff and sore, but alert. Shower and clothing first, then breakfast.

The sun was still about the drowsy business of getting up as Scott padded back out of the kitchen, eating handfuls of corn flakes straight from the cereal box. Stomach seen to, he next looked for John. And, typically, his moody brother had vanished. Figured.

Scott checked the library first, then the mansion's common areas and pool decks, finding John at last outside, coming upstairs from the distant beach. He was fully dressed, except for shoes, which he'd either lost, or left off in the first place. He was streaked with salt and black sand; in the final, gummy stages of drying off.

"Went for a walk," he mumbled by way of explanation, not quite meeting Scott's exasperated gaze.

Well, at least he hadn't fallen into a lava tube, or drowned. Shrugging, Scott offered him the half-empty cereal box.

"Couldn't sleep?" the pilot ventured, as they started back toward the house. All around them, birds and small scurrying things had begun shaking themselves awake.

"No… just thinking," John replied, between mouthfuls of cereal. For some reason (just guessing, really) Scott said,

"Woman troubles?"

He never got an answer, though, because just then, rounding a stand of clattering bamboo, they encountered a young girl. About 11, she was; long-haired and lissomly oriental. She sat beside the path on a knotted hammock, kicking her seat into lazy arcs while reading a large textbook. She had earphones on, too; her music loud enough that its buzz and whine were quite audible.

As their shadows fell across the page, she glanced up, the picture of fawn-like surprise. Then, she shot to her sandaled feet. A mango the girl had been about to eat fell to the path, rolling to a bruised stop just before Scott and John Tracy.

"Pardon, Messieurs! I was only… That is to say, Papa has…"

Scott, smiling, made a gentle calming gesture with both hands.

"Easy, Hon! It's fine. Big island, plenty of hammocks… 'Papa' is Kyrano, I take it?"

She nodded shyly, tucking a strand of black hair behind one ear. Weird… Kyrano hadn't mentioned any kids, but he was extremely formal, and maybe servants weren't supposed to talk about themselves?

"I'm Scott Tracy, and this is my brother, John," he told her, watching as the younger man handed the girl her dropped breakfast.

She smiled, then; a merry, frankly mischievous look that won them over at once. Her accent turned out to be as French-Polynesian as her father's.

"Welcome, Sirs. I am preferably called 'TinTin', although it's not my true name… and I have been told very sternly to keep from your sight. It seems that I'm a typhoon-level disturbance."

Scott's smile broadened.

"We'll keep quiet about meeting you," he promised. Did wonder what her 'true' name was, though… and how she could hear him, with her music turned up so loudly. His brother had other questions.

Thinking that he recognized the tune, John asked,

"What are you listening to?"

Rather than merely telling him, TinTin pulled out one of her wireless earpieces and handed it to John, who placed the thing close by his own ear and leaned within reception range. Toxic Scream, it turned out to be, doing an extremely guttural cover of _'Dead Man's Party'._ He didn't immediately hand the earpiece back, but kept listening.

Scott shook his head at the odd combination. There, amid a riot of yellow hibiscus and bright frangipani, his pallid icicle of a brother was leaning close to a pink-clad island waif, sharing weird music. A picture and a half, that. She: bobbing her head and bouncing around, tapping the time against John's left arm. He: still and expressionless as a wax effigy, simply absorbing a welcome sound.

The tableau broke when the song ended, and John handed back the borrowed earpiece with a casual,

"_Merci."_

(His MP3 player lay stuffed away in a nylon backpack, together with an old book and 32 flash-drives, back in the parked and anchored King Air. _His_ music was mostly Nirvana, Icepick and video game background stuff, though.)

"_De rien,"_ TinTin replied, all skips and skinned knees and twinkles. "There is another of you coming today, Papa tells me?"

Regular bubbling fountain of enthusiasm, she seemed to them; half tropical butterfly, half Tigger. Charmed, Scott said,

"Yeah. Virge is due to hit the beach at 1300, last I heard. You're about to be overrun with Tracys."

But the notion of more company only cheered the girl further.

"_Bon._ Between school times, it has been lonely, here, with only Papa. Your own noted father and the _professeur_ are so often away!"

'_Professeur?' _There was someone _else _on the island? John appeared to have picked up on that one, too.

"_Et, qui est le professeur?"_ he asked.

Swallowing a tiny bite of the mango, she responded (in English, for Scott's benefit),

"Dr. Hackenbacker… but he is often troubled with important matters, and hardly speaks."

Or came out of his hiding place, apparently. In nearly a week and a half, Scott had yet to glimpse this mystery man. No matter, though; either he had plenty of time ahead to meet the employees, or he'd be gone soon. Back, hopefully, to his squadron.

The three of them… Scott, John and TinTin… ended up sitting together on the gently creaking hammock, sharing what remained in the cereal box and using John's knife to carve up the mango. All in all, a decent morning.

Not just for them, either. Virgil rode shotgun, rather than piloted; flown to the island in one of his father's sleek Gulfstream business jets. Consequently, he got to sight-see a bit, coming in.

What he saw was a dark-flanked volcano capped in wispy clouds, its slopes covered in dense jungle and thin veils of cascading water. There was a house… big, white and angular was all he could see from the air… and black sand beaches scalloped with lacy waves. Virgil was unaware that his mouth had dropped open. Already, he was composing emails and pictures to send the twins and Grandma. He began humming a snippet of _'Aloha-oe'_, segueing unconsciously into the _'Victory at Sea'_ suite when the plane banked and began its final descent.

His heart was pounding, but from the relaxed smile on his handsome face, you'd have thought that Virgil Edward Tracy was transported from Wyoming to his father's Pacific island each and every day. His stomach swooped right along with the plane, whose uniformed pilot was murmuring rapidly into a polished titanium headset. It seemed impossible that the mid-sized Gulfstream could land on so small a patch of tarmac, but the flight crew were top-level professionals. They managed to float her on in, slick as ice, jouncing a little when they put on the brakes; but hey… short runway. Virgil wasn't sure he'd have done as well. The twin jet engines hadn't quite whined themselves to sleep, but Virgil was already unstrapping.

He was on his feet and out the door almost before Captain Sparks and the co-pilot said goodbye, fumbling his bags out of the carry-on compartment, and all but kicking loose the boarding stairs.

And there were his older brothers; Scott hurrying to the base of the steps (walking sort of stiffly), John hanging back, head down and hands deeply pocketed. At this point, it didn't much matter _what_ strange impulse had possessed their father to buy a damn island. As far as Virgil Tracy was concerned, pretty nearly everyone who mattered was here. Happy about it or not, whatever the reason, they'd been brought together again from distant Korea, New Jersey and Wyoming, and that was enough for him.

He greeted Scott with a backslap that would almost have dented a steel tackling dummy, nearly ripping his brother's arm off when shaking hands.

"Hey, Scott," he said, altogether inadequately. "What's going on?"

"Not much," his eldest brother replied, alternately wincing and smiling. Big, brown-haired Virgil was every bit as strong as he remembered. "Just a little temporary relocation. You know how it is. You?"

Virgil chuckled.

"Just an extra pawn on the chessboard of life, as usual… Could sure use something to eat besides honey-roasted peanuts, though."

By this time, John had wandered up, his white-blond hair snapping in the sea breeze like a hurricane flag. Virgil put a hand out, clasping his quiet brother's thin shoulder.

"John! Still dodging the scissors, huh?"

John smiled a little, slightly off to the side (as though he'd just remembered something). Then, shrugging away from the warm grasp, he said,

"Yeah. Back to food: the cereal's gone, but there's beer and pizza at the house. And dad," he added, after a moment, "isn't here."

Yet.

As the Gulfstream would have to refuel before heading back to Honolulu, and her pilots needed a short break, Scott keyed open one of the cliff-side hangars Kyrano had shown him. He tried inviting the flight crew up to the house, but time was Tracy Aerospace money, there were restrooms and coffee machines in the hangar, and the Gulfstream had places to be.

That was fine with Virgil; more time to compare notes with his brothers and have a look around at his very first tropical paradise. All the way up the road, while Scott drove and John sorted through an old backpack, Virgil examined the scenery; committing each flower, bird and mossy tree trunk to memory. Wrapped in thoughts of pigment hues and brush numbers, he hardly minded their vehicle's slow progress. The light, Virgil decided, was absolutely wonderful; filtered through green-gold leaves and stained-glass petals. He'd rarely been punched in the head with quite so much clamorous beauty. Even the air was different, dense and wet as a greenhouse's, almost. Completely distracted (and tired), Virgil's responses to Scott were awfully brief:

"Um," and "uh-huh," being his major contributions to the conversation. On the other hand, John gave him some kind of highly-caffeinated chewing gum. Perked him _right_ up.

He'd have hugged both of them, but that wouldn't have been the manly thing to do. Not without pounding on their shoulder pads, or giving them an affectionate face-mask tug, anyhow. Because, funnily enough, Virgil was only demonstrative on the football field, or with paint and music. At that time, it did not occur to him that there was any other way to be, and he'd have given you a very odd look if you'd suggested that feelings were meant to be acknowledged, rather than hidden.

Instead, things like the quiet whirr of their electric car, screeching birds and the crunch of tires on gravel wove together in Virgil's head, and he once more began humming. Weird place, he decided, but nice; filled with enough new sights and sounds to keep a guy creating for _years_.

Their car rounded a sharp bend and finally pulled free of the teeming forest. Scott braked just shy of the vehicle's recharge bay, giving the artist a good, long look at their astonishingly white, cubist new home.

"Well… it's sure, um… _modern_… isn't it?" Virgil offered tentatively, swallowing his now flavorless gum. He imagined the interior to be filled with stark Scandinavian furniture, chrome sculpture and Warhol prints… with maybe Philip Glass whispering through a house-wide sound system. In a word: _bleak_.

"That's one way to look at it," Scott muttered.

To change the subject, Virgil brought up a question, one which warm greetings and lengthy travels had heretofore pushed to the very back of his mind.

"So… besides the chance to critique his fancy architecture… why d'you think dad called us out here?"

Scott started the car again, but said nothing; pulling into the covered recharge bay without much more than a sour grunt. John had an opinion, though.

"Maybe it's like one of those late movies where everyone's invited to a reading of the will, and one at a time they're all murdered."

"Yeah, that's it," Scott snorted, getting carefully out of the car. "Kyrano, in the kitchen, with the candlestick. Watch your backs, guys."

"No, _seriously_…" Virgil persisted, fetching his luggage out of the back. John, meanwhile, had begun plugging in the 'toy car'.

"…why his own island, and why _now?"_

Four days later, they found out.

13


	4. 4: Truth

Re-edited 

**4: Truth**

_Tracy Island-_

The hike was long and exhausting, Scott's injured back protesting each jarring step and puffing, sweaty reach. Not that he was weak, or out of shape, exactly… but here on the dry side of the island, with the sun like a copper coin in a pitiless sky, it was _damn_ hot. Windy, too, with the ever present hum of those massive generators playing thunderous counterpoint.

Virgil led the way to their father's mysteriously large machines, lunging athletically and exclaiming over the view. The brick-kiln heat and brittle black ledges presented no problem at all to _him_. But then, Virgil Tracy had been known to backpack a hundred pounds of elk meat (or an injured climber) down from the Grand Tetons and _still_ have energy for next day's football practice. Scott would have thrown something at his younger brother, if he could have summoned the strength.

Blinking sweat from his eyes (and because, at times like these, it helped to consider those worse off than him), Scott glanced down at his _other_ brother, John. The second-oldest Tracy seemed utterly oblivious to heat, scenery and danger, alike; drifting along after Scott like a catatonic ghost. Scott and Virgil wore shorts. John had on his usual jeans and black tee-shirt. His hands were scratched and puffy from ill-timed branch grabs and awkward slips, and it seemed that he'd managed to turn both ankles. Didn't complain about it, though. Just trudged up the path after his brothers, doing silent penance for unnamed sins.

Scott would have worried more, but again, most of his energy was occupied elsewhere.

"You okay?" he called down (gasped, really). After a moment, his brother glanced upward; a flash of distracted, squinty dark blue and whipping silver-blond.

"Yeah," he replied over the muttering, gusty wind.

"Not much further to go," Scott added bracingly, while the picture of aerobic health bounded around above them like a damn mountain goat.

"Scott, I'm fine." Rather testily, that time.

"Yeah. You look it, there, 'King of the Restless Dead'," the fighter pilot joked, waiting to offer John a much-needed hand up.

Hauling his brother higher, Scott was surprised by how little he seemed to weigh, and by the fact that John was smiling almost _at_ him.

"Right. And I'll sit still for the lecture just as soon as you quit hobbling and clutching your back," said John, who observed a great deal, though he never seemed to be actually looking.

Fortunately, they were nearly to the generators; their father's quixotically-designed mansion a mere blot of white in the distance. Scott took a long pull at his water flask. He would have rested awhile, but Virgil was stamping with impatience ahead, calling and waving his arms.

"This was _your_ idea," Scott reminded John darkly, as the younger man took a short drink from his brother's canteen (he'd brought no supplies of his own). "…and I'm only limping because of all the blisters."

"Bullshit."

"What?" Scott demanded; hand outstretched for the flask.

John shrugged.

"I said: Right, blisters. Whatever."

They went on, finally reaching Virgil at the point when their muscular younger brother was ready to bite chunks out of the mountainside and pull his brown hair out in tufts.

_"Damn!"_ he snapped, when his deeply fatigued siblings crested the last ridge. "I could've led a tour group through this place and set up a crafts booth in the time it's taken you two to show up. Ever considered exercise? Clean living? Stuff like that?"

Virgil was laughing, now, but he meant what he'd said, and worried a lot about both of them. They'd come to the cavern, though, and soon had other things to think about. Uneven ground, for one; partially blocked entrance, for another. Weirdly, the barrier wasn't natural, but a cleverly disguised stone and metal door, part of what the brothers could only assume would eventually be a set.

Inside, all was grinding, whirring vibration and mechanical thunder. There were cameras everywhere, mobile units that turned to follow their progress as Scott, Virgil and John stepped cautiously within. The floor, they noted, was smoothly polished black stone. The ceiling disappearing into the shadows behind low-hung fluorescent lights. Then there were the generators themselves; huge, cylindrical machines held to the ground with enormous bolts. They weren't just geothermal, as John discovered when he consulted a metal wall chart; there were nuclear and wave-powered analogs in other regions, as well. Mind-bending terawatts of energy were being produced here; enough to bleed into the air around them, making their hair stand and their skins prickle. Virgil's flashlight ignited, shining brilliantly forth despite every attempt to flip the switch or remove the batteries.

It was far too noisy inside the vast cavern for speech, but John directed his brothers' attention to another diagram, this one apparently detailing where all of this power was being directed. In short, all over the island. Not just the mansion and air strip but several large subterranean vaults and the roundhouse were together receiving enough electricity to run a small city.

_"What the hell…?"_ Scott mouthed. But John merely shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. Virgil was equally mystified, and more bothered by all the discordant noise. Scott came up with a thought, though; one he shared with his younger brothers via notepad and pencil.

_'Maybe he's designing prototype craft for TA? Wants us as test pilots?'_

Virgil, and then John, read the note as they hurried through the ringing, roaring tunnel in search of someplace quieter. John held out his hand for the pencil, writing (with his left, informal, hand),

_'You, maybe. But don't think he'd trust me, anymore.'_

Having read over Scott's shoulder, Virgil demanded the very thing on both their minds, seizing pad and pencil to scrawl,

_'Why not? What did you do?'_

John didn't immediately answer; turning his face away and jamming his hands back into his jeans' pockets by way of refusal. Stubborn to the last, they'd get nothing more out of him till he was good and ready to talk.

Instead, he headed off in another direction, weaving his way among buzzing, staticky machines the size of suburban houses, giant coils of platinum wire enveloping huge, rapidly spinning magnets. Just before the shaking and noise passed endurance, they found another door, this one leading to an insulated and blissfully quiet hall. Like the after-image of a flash bulb, though, the wooly ghost of all that noise clogged their hearing for a bit, making conversation difficult.

The corridor they found themselves in was lit by LED panels and carpeted in pale, vanilla-beige polyester. There were no posters, offices or people. Just a sort of upside-down slot car track along which small machines zipped back and forth. Startling, at first, but the three Tracys soon became accustomed to all this automated activity, and to the silently tracking cameras.

The long hallway ended at a pair of elevators. One a huge, industrial-sized job (like you'd see on the hangar deck of an aircraft carrier), the other small, with a hand print scanner restricting its operations. _No one _wanted to face another trek through generator hell, so they decided to find out where the elevators would take them.

Again, no signs or labels; just the wall-mounted scanner and cameras. Scott's palm print did the trick, keying open the titanium-steel doors of the private elevator, whose polished internal walls made an infinitely repeated mob of Tracys seem to be crowding within. Bruised, scratched, sweaty Tracys with pounding headaches, ringing ears and grim faces.

They weren't prepared for the elevator's speed. Scott, ever the direct sort, had given an _'Oh, well...'_ sort of shrug, and pressed the topmost command button. Instantly, the maglev elevator sprang like a rocket, and Virgil got sick. At least there was music…

"Clean living, my ass," John muttered, handing his brother a paper towel that had issued from the elevator wall like ticker-tape. "Try a few hundred beer and computer game all-nighters. Toughen that stomach right up."

Scott was in genuine pain, having been caught unawares by the lift's stupendous acceleration. John peeled him away from the wall, while Virgil huddled over his paper towel. Wrapping thin arms around Scott from behind, he suddenly, violently jerked him upward. Scott's back popped, hard.

…Which strangely enough, after an initial burst of nuclear-strength pain, helped. He didn't have time to thank his amateur chiropractor, however, because just then the elevator car slowed, shedding all of its upward momentum in a scant .3 seconds. Once again, more colorfully than ever, Virgil was sick. Scott's stomach rose, trailing weightless coils of intestine, somewhere into his sinuses. (The smells and sounds didn't help any, either.)

John seemed merely bleak and uncomfortable.

"Whoever designed this thing," he said, as the car slammed to a halt and the doors opened, "is not a 'people person'."

Unusual insight, coming from John. Scott caught up with his own stomach, at last. He and John each seized a Virgil-arm, and then hauled their miserable brother clear of the highly polished torture device.

Whatever they'd expected to find at the top of their ride, they were wrong. There was no weird, high-tech headquarters, aeronautical research facility, or bound and gagged British super-spy. Just a cave-like observation deck looking out over the island's southern aspect, and miles of blue infinity. There was some sort of wall comm, a polished steel guard rail, and that heart-stopping view.

"Hey…" John ventured, after darting forward to lean over the rail, "…is that another runway?"

Virgil wouldn't approach the edge, but Scott girded up his loins and strode over.

"Sure looks like it," he decided, following John's unwavering point. "But, what's he want with an isolated air strip that runs straight into a cliff? Planning to practice his white-knuckle touch-and-goes?"

"I think you were right the first time," John mused, hanging so suicidally far over the guard rail that Scott instinctively grabbed for his belt.

"He's… dammit, let _go_… testing something out here, in the back of nowhere, that he means to make another fortune with."

Virgil inched closer, giving his rebellious stomach a chance to redeem itself. Mountain vistas didn't ordinarily bother him, but after that elevator ride…

"Okay," he panted. "Two questions: Why _us_ for test pilots? Only Scott has serious flight time… and why do you think he wouldn't trust you, John?"

…Besides the obvious, of course. John and Jeff Tracy had butted heads from potty training to university. They simply never got along. But John chose to answer only the first question.

"Because we're not likely to go running to Grumman or Lockheed-Martin with his designs, is why. Think it over, dumb-ass."

Virgil scowled at the barbed remark, but refused to be distracted. He'd hit a nerve and he knew it. Sensing trouble, Scott stepped in. While Virgil was generally the calmest and most pleasant of brothers, he did possess the Tracy stubborn streak… and about two-hundred-fifty pounds of rock-solid muscle to back it up with.

"What'd you do?" Virgil insisted. Before his dangerously still brother could reply, Scott waved an arm for attention.

"Okay, that's enough! Everyone's got questions about why we're here, and we're not going to answer a damn one of them by fighting. Virge, shut the hell up. John, apologize."

There was an instant or two of tense silence. He hadn't ordered his brothers around this way since leaving for the academy, and wasn't sure they'd still accept his authority. But their tension stretched and broke, leaving everything else more-or-less normal. John thrust his hands back into his pockets and lowered his head, once again curtaining emotion and intent. He muttered something that sounded halfway like,

"Sorry."

…To which Virgil responded with a smile and brief, magnanimous shoulder clasp.

"No problem. Guess I _was_ getting kinda personal. So… uh… you guys want to go camping next? Get out of this maze and hit the beach?"

They still had more 'together' than 'apart'. More history than conflict; a missing brother, a dead mom, and each other.

"Hell, yeah," Scott grinned. "Go fishing, swim and build a bonfire, just like out by the lake. Don't tell Kyrano, though, because I _don't_ want tea and damn finger sandwiches on a camp-out."

Even John agreed, with a slight, wordless nod, and the brothers left the observation deck through an unlocked side door, finding an easier way back down to the mansion.

At the big house they changed, showered and packed for a beach-side camping trip. Scott brought along towels, sunscreen, a lighter and sleeping bags… Virgil his fishing gear, some tin foil, three potatoes and a sack of marshmallows… John, the all-important cooler of beer, his knife and a folding camp shovel. They rendezvoused on the lower pool deck, purposely vague about their destination despite all of Kyrano's gentle hints.

"Just wrap it up and stick it in the fridge, Kyrano," Scott told him, referring to the spinach soufflé he'd prepared for dinner. "We'll scrape it on toast, or something, tomorrow."

TinTin would have liked to go along, but no one else thought that an eleven-year old girl belonged on a camp-out with three young men. Home she petulantly stayed, then; for awhile, at least.

At length, supplies gathered and plans made, the Tracys headed down the long stairs to the beach, soon rounding a bend in the dark shore and passing from sight.

Kyrano sighed. Shaking his grey head at the willfulness of American youth, he glanced at his properly obedient young daughter.

"TinTin, you may inform Doctor Hackenbacker that his dining area will be 'clear' tonight."

"Oui, Papa," she murmured; unbeknownst to Kyrano, already plotting escape.

Elsewhere, kicking at black sand and watching the playful surf, the Tracy brothers strode along, searching for a perfect campsite. Back in Kansas, on McConnell Air Force Base, they'd had a backyard clubhouse. In Wyoming, there'd been a cherished spot by Lake Jackson, out on a rocky, forested point. Here… well, it took awhile to locate perfection; one site being too windy, another subject to flooding, and a third too crusted with obsidian flakes and pumice for any sort of comfort. But then…

"Right here," Scott decided at last, dropping his pack and bedroll on the shore of a crescent-shaped and tree-lined cove. There was even a small stream, pouring fresh and cold from the mountain. "_This_ is perfect. Let's get to work."

Knowing their jobs, the young men proceeded with setting up camp, pausing from time to time for brief looks around. There were a lot of tall rocks further out to sea, sifting the turquoise water like jagged fingers. A cross-wind blew, but not fiercely, too preoccupied with stirring the treetops to bother with a few fragile campers. And, although there was quite obviously a savage current off-shore, it surged darkly well beyond the rocks, leaving their new-found cove in relative peace. Heavy-laden fruit trees bent and swayed just above them, offering bananas, coconuts and big, head-sized bumpy green things that no one was quite sure what to do with.

Scott collected driftwood for the bonfire while John dug an oven pit and lined it with flat rocks. There'd been one out on the lake, so old that it had probably first seen use by the Folsom Point tribes, but here they'd have to build their own. And a deep latrine, as well.

Virgil, in the meantime, put together his old graphite fly rod (it had been Granddad's) and went fishing. He looked around a lot, first; observing the sorts of insects that were buzzing around above the water, and which types the fish appeared to be biting on. Then he chose his fly and tied it on the line, casting three times before finding the right spot; a shadowy overhang below the stream, where the water ran deep and cool.

He stood knee-high in the cove, lapped at by minnows and wavelets, forgetting nearly everything else in the comforting symphony of fly-fishing. He'd cast, jig and twitch the iridescent fly across the cove, wait for a strike, then set the hook with a sharp tug and settle in for a real fight. These were big, unfamiliar island fish, not slim little brookies and cutthroats, and they fought him all the way in.

Scott had always loved to bow-fish, but hadn't brought his gear with him from Korea. He stood ready with the net, though, helping Virgil to land supper. They fished together until just after sunset, taking four long, shimmering prizes. Virgil made a mental note of the spot, and then handed his catch over to John for cleaning. The butterflied fish were iced down to wait for Scott's carefully-nurtured fire to blossom, giving the brothers time for swimming, arm-wrestling, lies and other such masculine foolishness. (Though Scott mostly bowed out of the physical stuff; too sore.)

"Can you roast a coconut?" Virgil inquired doubtfully, once they'd gone back to preparing dinner. He was wrapping bananas and potatoes in foil, and wondered whether coconuts, too, would be worth a go.

"Hell if I know," John replied, raking coals out of the fire to prop the beer-drenched fish over. "Give it a try and find out."

By this time, they were all three famished, and gloriously fatigued. And, really, who among them knew the first thing about coconuts? It had grown quite dark, now, with their fire sending orange-red sparks in tall showers to join the stars. The wind shifted a bit, but left them pretty much alone.

Virgil wrapped half a dozen coconuts in foil and put them, too, in the pit oven with his potatoes, the bananas and a shovel load of glowing-hot rocks. Two of them exploded with a noise like dropped encyclopedias, providing a brand-new source of Tracy brother entertainment: coconut artillery salutes.

Their eventual meal was quite primitive, but deeply satisfying. John had his knife, but like the others burned himself raw scooping roast potato off the tin foil jackets and picking tender white fish from the sharp little bones. There were lots of curses, grabs for ice, and blown-on fingers, but also three very filled stomachs. By long custom, they didn't say much over supper. Virgil did repeat a quick prayer, though:

_"Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghostes',_

_the one who's first-est_

_eats the most-est."_

…But mostly they just sated themselves, sitting on fallen palm logs, enjoying the food, the beer and the company. Cleanup was easy enough, though finding their dug-out latrine in the darkness was not. So, in order to pay the 'beer tax', Virgil simply waded out into the water in his swim trunks, which John disapproved of.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he warned his younger brother. Virgil remained unconcerned.

"There's great circulation from the stream, don't worry. The current 'll carry everything right out to sea."

"No," John clarified from shore, a little unevenly. "I'm thinking about the spiky whiz-fish. Vandellis Cirrhosa."

"The _what?"_ Virgil laughed, looking back.

"I'm serious," (if not entirely sober) "…There's this fish that's attracted to sources of ammonia. If you take a piss in the water, it swims up the stream and _inside,_ where it gets stuck. Takes surgery to get the damn things out of there."

Virgil started to laugh, again, and then stopped; staring down at the suddenly dark and sinister cove, he whispered,

"They have those, here?" and began backing swiftly toward shore.

John shrugged.

"I dunno. They're actually native to the Amazon, but I'm not taking any chances on radioactive Monster Island, here."

And neither would Virgil, ever again. Back at the bonfire, Scott pulled out a coin, and they engaged in another old ritual: Truth.

Basically a sort of game, it went like this: for a stated number of turns around the fire, two brothers flipped a coin to see who got to ask the third a single question, which _had_ to be answered honestly. Considering how quiet and undemonstrative they all were, only with the help of alcohol and artificial rules could the brothers really communicate.

As the eldest, Scott always had to go first. Virgil won the toss, asking him,

"How did you get that honor medal? I mean, I've heard the official line… everyone has… but you, uh, don't seem too proud of being a hero, Scott. What happened up there?"

Scott blinked, his violet-blue eyes hollow in the glow of a fading bonfire. Turning to John, as arbiter, he said,

"Can I ask for a different question?"

But John shook his head. This particular out was almost never approved, and Scott hadn't really expected a different outcome, tonight.

"Okay… Gimme another beer, then. It's not a long story… but I don't like telling it. Truth: I should never have gotten that damn medal. I never wanted it."

He stared into the fire, glanced from one silent brother to the next, then continued.

"I and my wingman at the time, Lieutenant Blaise, were flying night escort for a C-150 loaded with bunker busters and nuclear refueling packs. Stupid cargo combination, but everyone upstairs was trying to save money and flight time, and what do the damn pilots know, right?"

He took a swig of beer to polish off a little of memory's bitter edge.

"Anyhow, word of the shipment must've leaked… some damn anti-unification terrorist group got wind of the thing, and detonated a homemade EM-pulse bomb just as we were overflying the hills; total instrument shut-down. They fired a few shoulder launched missiles, too, just in case we weren't badly enough screwed, already. One of them hit Blaise, blew the tail clear off his fighter. He ejected safely, but another missile struck the 150. Captain Mercer was the pilot, and he could have flown anything; even a brick, if you stuck wings on it. I got peppered with shrapnel from both concussions, same time as most of my avionics went down. Well… I thought about ejecting, but the C-150 was obviously going down, with Kunsan not 40 miles away. Um… I figured that Mercer was in the same fix I was; no guidance, controls working for shit, but that he'd stay with the plane, try to fight her away from the city.

"I saw some flares and parachutes, tried calling him, but both our comms were down. He got her turned, somehow, and headed for the ocean, but damned if we weren't still being fired on! I tagged along, shooting SAMs out of the sky, while trying not to crash. Stayed longer than I should have, maybe… but so did Mad Dog… that was Mercer's handle.

"I escorted him past the city and over the harbor, both of us losing altitude the whole way. Found out, later, that they'd scrambled fighters from base, but the EM pulse had taken their instruments out, as well. They had no idea where we were. So, I just stayed with him, blasting away at missiles until we were well out to sea. Kept thinking he'd set the controls, grab a parachute and jump, and that I'd punch out after him, launch some flares and a dye marker. You know, keep together for rescue. He didn't jump, though. Too many boats around, maybe. Right to the end, right into the water, he was still trying to fly her. By that time, I was only 800 feet over the ocean myself, and shit out of luck.

"Mercer augered in, hard. There was this god-awful flash, like another sunrise. After that, I couldn't really see. Just grabbed the ejection handle by feel and punched out. The canopy came apart and I got beat to hell by wind and rockets and pieces of the 150. The seat fell off alright, but it felt like a damn long time before my chute opened. Impact with the water knocked me out, but only for a second because it was cold, and there was this meteor shower of burning fuselage and secondary explosions hitting the ocean all around me.

"I got free of the chute and harness, and, uh… I really _did_ think that Mad Dog might've made it… that he might be out there, somewhere. I kept calling him. Lit the flare, hit my dye and shark repellent packs, and yelled myself goddam mute. Never found him. Nobody did.

"I got rescued a few hours later, by a Navy patrol boat. Don't remember much about it, though, because I was apparently delirious when they got to me."

Scott rubbed at the back of his own neck, puffing out a long, gusty breath.

"That was my second ejection under fire, and it screwed my back up pretty good… but I didn't deserve a damn promotion and medal for it. I'm really not even sure why I'm still alive, and Mercer isn't. I mean… he had a wife and kids. Why the hell didn't he jump?"

Neither of his brothers had an answer for that. But John gave him a third beer and Virgil handed over the marshmallow he'd been toasting.

"So… that's the truth," Scott finished heavily. "Keep it to yourselves."

And they would, to the very grave. It was John's turn, next, with Scott winning the toss. Not that it really mattered _who_ won. The question was a foregone conclusion.

"What'd you do to piss dad off, this time?"

John's response was typically, almost clinically terse. Shaking the hair from his face, he said,

"I got into trouble at school."

"Right," Scott replied, poking at the fire with his now treat-less marshmallow stick. Some leftover burnt sugar dripped into the flames, sizzling briefly. "We figured that. What we're looking for, here, is elaboration. What _kind_ of trouble?"

"You didn't ask that."

_"No…_ but I _will_ come across this fire and kick your bony ass, if you don't answer me properly."

Maybe not. With his back like it was, and John being a master at slipping out of holds, the exact direction of this ass-kicking was open to question. John bowed to tradition, though, and at last gave a satisfactory reply.

"Simple. I cracked the 'secure' faculty password list and downloaded exams for all of my courses. Didn't cheat, or anything, just took them all at once and timed the answers to be mailed in on schedule, so I wouldn't have to bother showing up for class. There were other things on my mind at the time, and the set-up should have worked flawlessly, but one of my… acquaintances… did the same thing, only _he_ started selling exams to other students, and got caught by one of our professors. We could've been turned in and expelled right then and there, but instead the guy decided to blackmail us into working for him. Turned out he had a couple dozen others on the string, as well, for pulling shit like that.

"We weren't the first, but he certainly worked us harder than the others. I mostly dug up corporate facts for him… insider trading-type stuff. I was good enough not to get caught, even when he wanted deeper and dumber things. And, I had a plan to get out of the whole mess, but I had to be careful, because I wanted my, um…"

"You can say 'friends', John," Virgil interrupted, smiling a little. "Even use names, if you like. No one here's gonna tell."

The young hacker gave a short, almost-laugh.

"Okay… my _friends:_ Denice, Rick and, um, and Drew. I wanted to be sure they didn't get dragged down with Professor Shithead, which slowed down the plan. Long story short, some of Dumb-ass' amazing trades got the feds sniffing around, he got caught, and tried shifting the blame to us. Backslash and DNC… Rick and Denice were arrested, I turned myself in, and Drew got away. I called Ms. Bonaventure, because I've dealt with her before, and arranged for dad to get my friends out with all charges dropped… and me, too, in exchange for 'good behavior'."

"But not your professor?" Scott probed, going a little beyond the rules of 'Truth'.

"Hell, no. He can spend eternity fending off his cell mates, for all I care. Serves him right, but Rick and Denice didn't deserve to go down just because they got trapped. So, since I knew dad wouldn't use his influence unless I was part of the bait, I let the FBI nail me. And, I'm pretty sure he's going to find a nice, dark hole to lock me in, whenever he gets here. End of story."

Well, that explained a great deal. And, yeah, Jeff Tracy was likely going to be as scathingly furious as they'd ever seen him, meaning that Scott and Virgil were going to have to work miracles in order to defend their brother.

_"Told_ you, you shoulda just gone to UW," Virgil grumped. "Bet they don't even _have_ computers over there!"

"Actually, they do," John muttered, getting up to drag another log onto the fire. "Ken's emailed me from the Cheyenne campus a couple of times."

They'd kept in touch. Scott would have liked to ask a few further questions, such as the exact nature of the 'good behavior' his brother had promised, but the rules of the game precluded it, till next round.

It was Virgil's turn, next and, though Scott won the coin toss, he let John choose the question. After a long moment of reflection, the troubled young man asked,

"I was pretty out of things, around the funeral… and then I headed back east. Never got a chance to ask what, um… how things exactly happened, with Granddad."

"Oh…" Virgil whispered, looking like a very lost little boy. He, too, would have liked a different question, rather than picking at a fresh scab, this way. No escape from Truth, though.

"Okay. It was kind of early… sun wasn't hardly up, yet… and damn cold. He was gonna ride out and check some of the south fences; saddled up Traveler and rode out of the barnyard while I was still tending to the hogs. But, y'know what's funny? He'd gone over the rise, was out of sight already, when he decided to turn around and come back. He rode into the yard again, up to where I was slopping the hogs, and asked if I had any cigarettes, because he'd forgotten to bring any, and didn't want to go back in the house, with Grandma on a kitchen-cleaning tear. I gave him the rest of my pack, and he said,

"_'Thanks, Ted. I'm obliged,'_ just like he always did. Then, he clicked and nudged Traveler around, headed off, and collapsed off the saddle right there in the barnyard. What gets me is… I mean… if he hadn't come back for the smokes, I never would've seen him fall off. He'd 've had his heart attack and died out there, and we might not have found out for hours. Not till the coyotes and buzzards got there, anyhow."

Virgil, sitting on the black sand, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped both arms around them before continuing.

"I ran over to him, but he had just time to smile at me before he died. Couldn't bring him back with CPR, or water, or nothing. We all tried, taking turns at heart massage and mouth-to-mouth until MedFlight arrived. They couldn't do anything for him, though. Not even at the hospital."

Nobody spoke for awhile, after this. In a very real sense, Grant Tracy had raised his three oldest grandsons. In a way, he'd been their father. But, soon enough, they'd be dealing with the genuine article, something no one felt ready for.

"Listen," Scott said at last, because Virgil looked so terribly sad, and John had developed that blank 'thousand-mile' stare of his; always a bad sign.

"…What we need is a plan of action. If dad's brought us out here to test rockets," (or to punish John) "…we need to set some ground rules, first; present a united front."

He had Virgil's attention, now, but John seemed to have withdrawn someplace deep and private.

"John," he called, going over to sit beside his brother and place a light hand against the back of his neck (as close as Scott could come to a comforting hug).

"…we need you with us, Little Brother. Snap out of it, okay?"

Three years he'd been that way, following the burial of their mother, but Scott didn't mean to allow such a disastrous plunge, again.

"We've got plans to make, understand?"

A few heartbeats later, still looking away, John slowly nodded. And there by the fire, on foreign shores, three worried Tracys held the island's first conference.

In the morning they were roused by the scream of incoming jet engines, and the jostling hand of a terribly agitated young girl.


	5. 5: Brotherhood

Thanks, E.D., Sam1, Boleyn, Zeilfanaat. Freshly re-edited.

**5: Brotherhood**

_Tracy Island-_

As a pilot, you learned to identify the sound of most airplane engines; whether propeller-driven, turbo-prop, or jet. The vagaries of airflow, power source or turbine size combined to give each aircraft a distinctive signature, and these particular noises… the intermittent, unwelcome, stalling whine… bore all the hallmarks of a Lear Jet in serious trouble.

The worrisome sounds would have roused the sleeping brothers even had TinTin not scurried from Scott to Virgil to John, vigorously shaking each in turn.

"_Messieurs_," the girl gasped, flat out of breath from running, "Votre_ pere_ approaches the island, and he has declared the emergency of flight!"

The morning was new and rosy, like the girl; the ashes of their fire blackened and damp. Scott rubbed a hand over his face, blinked away the dream stuff, ground his teeth and got up. A white-hot spear point seemed to slash his back open from the base of his skull to his right thigh, but he made it. Off to the left, Virgil appeared somewhat disoriented, but John was alert, tracking the wavering sound by turning his blond head.

"He's trying for the main airstrip," John hazarded, brushing dark sand from his hair and rumpled clothing. "Not the mountain-sider. We ought to hurry."

Scott hated to do it, but he was forced by circumstance into an embarrassing admission.

"You three go on ahead," he mumbled. "I don't run very well, these days."

By that time, Virgil was already pounding down the beach after TinTin, churning up gouts of sand. John nodded.

"Okay. Catch up, whenever."

…And then he, too, was off, leaving Scott alone at the camp site. As best he could, their older brother followed, willing pain and stiffness to depart; but a compressed spine and pinched nerves were conditions not lightly ignored. The best he could manage (keeping to the dense, wet sand by the water's edge) was a shambling, oft-disrupted trot.

His breath hissed through clenched teeth, and his vision swam. Thudding footfalls, wave music and screeching birds braided themselves hypnotically through the marching cadence Scott grunted over and over to keep himself going.

He ran out of beach before very long, reaching an almost lunar landscape of high cliffs and ancient lava flows, and here the going was markedly tougher; like running across the face of a heated frying pan.

Overhead, the approaching plane noises faltered, then revved again, as four hungry engines fought for air. He smelled jet fuel, borne on a strong Pacific wind. His father was dumping his tanks, preparing to crash land.

Scott picked up his pace, somehow, though he wouldn't run again for a very long time. Rounding a spit of tumbled dark boulders, he came within sight of the airstrip… and the crash.

His father's plane barely cleared the coastline, its landing gear almost scraping the cliff's edge. The outer right engine appeared to have exploded, its burning shards FOD-ing out the number three engine and punching big holes in the right wing.

(FOD: _Foreign Object Damage_)

Jeff Tracy was clearly having trouble keeping her level, and no wonder; part of the tail assembly had torn away. Scott's muscles bunched and he unconsciously leaned to the right, fighting the stick as his father must be doing.

"C'mon…" he muttered, still lumbering for the runway. "C'mon, Dad… bring her in."

The plane wobbled again, a wing dipped…

In terrible slow motion it scraped the tarmac, setting off a shower of vivid sparks. The Lear slewed wildly to starboard, sections of wing coming off in long, jagged shreds. Flame blossomed, hungry and red.

Probably, there was noise, but Scott didn't hear it, could barely see through the sudden fog of white fire-damper now jetting from the runway. There was… thank God… no explosion, because one downed plane would have gotten them all; Scott, John, Virgil, TinTin… and a dark-haired man he didn't recognize. They'd all raced forward, slipping on foamy-wet tarmac in their hurry to reach the Lear.

Scott fell, got a hand-up from John, and forced himself onward. Looking like a stubbed-out cigarette, the plane had fetched up against a cliff-side hangar; oozing hydraulic fluid and smoldering, with its nose crumpled into the deeply cracked ground.

Virgil and the stranger got there first. Together, they forced the plane's emergency access panel open, plunging into the smoky interior for Jeff Tracy. John scrambled up and inside after the others, but Scott remained below. Even could he have leapt to seize the Lear's remaining wing, his arms and back wouldn't bear his own weight. All he could do was stand by, alternating savage curses with anxious prayer.

TinTin hopped up and down at his side, beating small fists against her legs. Scott had prevented her from following John and Virgil into the plane, claiming she'd be more useful out here. Truthfully, though, he simply refused to let a young girl go in where _he_ could not.

Scott saw movement through the Lear's oval windows. Then, from the emergency exit, Virgil's tousled brown hair and worried face.

"Scott!" his brother shouted, waving a muscular arm. The other arm and hand stretched backward, helping support a chillingly limp burden. Scott pushed the sudden visuals away. Even without fire there was still the danger of massive blunt trauma… of literally being clubbed to death by the ground.

"Lower away," he responded, just as though all was well.

From somewhere behind him, the fighter pilot could hear Kyrano clattering up in that damn electric car of his, laying on the horn the whole way. Bracing himself, Scott raised his arms as high as he could; then, somehow, higher. Virgil and John together lowered a bloodied but conscious Jeff Tracy from the wrecked plane. Meanwhile, the stranger stood by with a fire extinguisher, sneezing and coughing like John in a room full of cats. They'd Marine-rigged a harness out of blankets and shorn seat belts, using it to maneuver the injured man to Scott and TinTin, who caught him just as the cart squealed up.

The girl was stronger than she looked, taking orders well and bearing up under Jeff Tracy's considerable weight (he was a tall man; on par with John, but more solidly built, especially around the shoulders and chest). Without her help, Scott could never have gotten his father to the back of Kyrano's cart.

"Thanks, Hon," he grunted, as she helped him arrange his father's long legs, one of which seemed to be broken. "You should've been a boy."

To his groggy father, he said,

"It's gonna be okay, Dad. You're safe. You made it."

Jeff managed to nod, but in the wrong direction.

"Bird strike…" he mumbled gruffly, by way of excuse.

Then the stranger (still sneezing) pushed into the back beside Jeff, giving Scott Tracy a single, enigmatic look from behind his thick glasses. Kyrano summoned TinTin to the passenger seat, nervous as a hen with one egg.

"Daughter, come! Mister Scott, Mister John… Master Virgil… I shall convey your honored father to the infirmary, and then return for yourselves with all speed. With your permission, young sirs…?"

It wasn't really a request, for the old manservant was already backing the cart. Moments later, stirring twin wakes of flame retardant, he was off. Not that matters grew much quieter thereafter; Kyrano had been gone less than thirty seconds, when a horde of small machines raced from the nearby hangar to begin cleaning up. With flashing lights and shrill _breeps_, they drove the brothers away from their father's downed plane.

"Bad wreck," Virgil commented to no one in particular, as he, Scott and John stepped off the tarmac.

"Any landing you can walk away from…" muttered Scott, who'd seen far too many of the other sort.

"Except that, technically, he didn't _walk,_" said John. "He was _carried_. Looked okay, though. Broken leg, maybe."

"Did he say anything?" Scott asked. "While you were pulling him out, I mean?"

"Yeah: _'Ow… dammit',_" John replied. "Anything to you?"

"_Bird strike_," Scott sighed, adding, "nice to see the lines of communication opening up."

John glanced back at the wrecked plane, which was already swarming with flies-on-road-kill repair bots.

"Must have been a damn pterosaur," he said, shaking his blond head, "Quetzalcoatlus northropi, or something…"

Changing the subject, Virgil rubbed at the sweaty, insect-stung back of his own neck, asking,

"What now?" (Any plans they'd had to confront their father were obviously on indefinite hold.)

John shrugged.

"Start walking, I guess."

He cast a sharp sideways glance at Scott, who made a conscious, tooth-grinding effort to stand straighter.

"Yeah," their older brother responded, keeping his voice level. "Maybe we'd better. Kyrano's going to have to drive pretty slowly, with passengers in the back… and then he'll need to help TinTin and that other guy get Dad upstairs. In other words… it's gonna be awhile."

Nothing for it but to set off after the car, moving at Scott's tortured snail's-pace through wet, gold-spattered shade. Didn't pay much attention to distance or direction, as there was only one way to go: upward.

About a quarter of a mile along the trail, Scott cleared his throat and spoke again.

"Think that guy was the 'professor'?"

Virgil shied a stone at one of the island's big, inquisitive rodents, driving the monster off in a flurry of dark fur and indignation.

"Unless Dad's hiding anyone _else_ we don't know about… seems like a safe bet, yeah. Just wish we'd gotten a chance to thank him for helping out."

John's slight headshake and distracted frown drew his brothers' immediate attention.

"What?" Scott demanded, halting in mid-path.

But, again, John shook his head.

"I dunno… Nothing, probably."

"Uh-uh. It's _never_ 'nothing', with you. What's the problem, John?"

After a pause of several heartbeats, arms tightly folded, John said to the ground at his feet,

"Just… I feel like I know him from somewhere."

"School?" Virgil suggested, reaching down through sodden leaf litter for another good-sized throwing rock. Damn island-rats… "Maybe he was a teacher at _'Liberal Bed-Wetter U_.'?"

"Princeton," John corrected. "And, no; I remember _everyone_ whose classes I've cut. He wasn't one of them."

It was just about then that TinTin appeared, galloping back through the jungle rather than taking the trail, her black hair streaming like smoke. She was holding something, too. Juice boxes; of the sort that kids put in their lunch bags. Tangy, chemical grape.

Panting too heavily to speak, TinTin simply handed the drinks around. Virgil mussed her long hair, drawing from the girl a blush as pink and pure as sunrise. John gave her a quick nod, then looked over at his weak, but determined, older brother.

"I'm tired," he lied. "Let's sit down for awhile."

Scott reddened, but he didn't protest when John led them over to a mossy, fallen log. Because, yes... he needed the rest.

"I am terribly sorry, _Messieurs_," TinTin explained herself, once she'd caught her breath again. "I would have sooner returned, but Papa required me."

"No problem," Scott told her, easing himself onto the log and punching a drinking straw into his juice box. John would probably have preferred something stronger, but he, too, drained his artificial fruit drink, muttering,

"Cheers."

"How's Dad?" Scott asked.

A shrieking, cawing argument erupted somewhere high in the treetops above them. Leaves rained down with a shower of hard little fruits, then a swirl of bloodied feathers. Yeah. _Great_ place for a mid-life crisis/ vacation hideaway, really.

TinTin waited for silence before replying,

"Your father is being attended to, _Mons_… that is… 'Scott'. _Le professeur_ has machines that are able to swiftly heal and perform the surgeries. Monsieur Tracy will soon be quite well."

"Mind if I ask a dumb question?" John cut in bluntly, setting down his juice box to look at TinTin.

This was an odd request, one with no polite answer, and the girl wasn't certain quite how to respond. Scott came to her rescue.

"Just say, _'go ahead'_," he told her. "Don't worry about hurting his feelings. John wouldn't recognize good manners if they jumped up and bit him on the as… _arm._"

TinTin covered her face with both hands, and commenced to giggle.

"Go ahead, _Monsieur, s'ils vous plait_."

John chose to ignore their little exchange, continuing seriously,

"What's the professor's _real_ name, and what exactly does he do, here? Why did our father hire him?"

TinTin's almond eyes widened behind spread fingers. She was an exquisite little thing, seemingly without guile, and no match at all for John Tracy.

"I… was not aware, _Messieurs_, that 'Hackenbacker' was a thing assumed. Such the difficult name to say must obviously have been given at birth, no?"

"No," John told her, "it wasn't. I _swear_ I've seen that…" And then, he paused, staring down at the jungle floor. Scott could just about see him mentally scrolling though a head full of spread sheets and imagery. Must have arrived at some kind of solution, too, because all at once John's posture shifted slightly. He didn't say anything, though, _or_ look up.

Any other time, Scott might have pressed him; but he recalled John's helpful lie about being tired, and backed off. Yeah, his brother could be cold, obnoxious and sneaky as hell… but sometimes he was also a right-to-the-wall ally… and if it really mattered, he'd explain things. If not, so what?

Once again, the girl spoke up.

_"Ehm_… Papa says that your father will perhaps be able to receive you as early as tomorrow," TinTin ventured shyly, to fill a bit of the silence. "Surely all will then be revealed."

"Maybe so," Scott replied, bracing himself to rise. "But one way or another, we won't learn a thing just sitting here." Then,

"Thanks for the drinks, Hon. You can help us strike camp after lunch, if you want."

No sense leaving their bedrolls and fishing gear out in the weather all day… and the girl had definitely earned honorary 'brotherhood'.

TinTin's answering smile was incredible. All the way up to the house she switched from hopping around like a juiced flea to serious, 'one of the guys' cool. Amid the tall brothers she was a petite, sprightly thing, but one who already felt very much welcomed. Very much part of the team.


	6. 6: International Rescue

Further edits... Many thanks for the reviews and comments. 

**6: International Rescue**

_Tracy Island-_

"John…?"

"Hmm?"

"Got a minute?"

It was just after lunch; some kind of chilled, jellied salmon ring which Scott and Virgil had doused with ketchup, and John had chopped into very small (and then still smaller) bits. He'd assembled quite an interesting mock circuit diagram with the stuff, using Greek olives and dabs of fine caviar to round out the salmon.

Kyrano had departed the formal dining room in a stiff and injured huff… to pack his bags, probably. Jeff Tracy was still in recovery, attended by the shadowy Doctor Hackenbacker. What all this amounted to (besides three hungry young men, a mortally insulted chef, and some rather smelly diagrams) was free time; a chance to talk. In Scott's case, to not so much ask for advice as reveal his plans.

John looked up from his carefully modeled logic gates (the olives, in various configurations) and gave his older brother that cocked-eyebrow, _"I'm listening,"_ look.

The table was enormous, meant for an assorted tribe of guests, _their_ guests, and all the grandchildren they'd probably have before the final course was served. If Scott wanted to actually _talk_, he was going to have to orbit that ocean of mahogany until he reached John's location (at his 2:00, if Scott considered himself to be stationed at 6). Virgil had already excused himself to go swimming, and TinTin wasn't permitted to eat with the 'adults', so the two brothers were alone.

Scott got up, breathing many rapid, shallow puffs between clenched teeth, like a female in one of those birthing videos. Three steps later he could more or less think again, and was able to lift his hand from the table top.

John wasn't exactly watching; more like a cat pretending to ignore something, while actually having an ear swiveled and muscles tensed in preparation. No need for concern, though. Scott arrived in good order a few moments later, easing himself into a high backed seat beside his brother. John returned to designing salmon circuits.

The lace-curtained French doors were open, and a warm afternoon breeze blew in, replete with bird song and the splashing rumor of Virgil, hitting the pool. Sunlight sparkled off smudged crystal and ketchup-stained silver. Crumpled linen napkins floated like icebergs on rich, glossy-red mahogany… and the salmon was melting. Not that Scott could have figured out what all of that plate-bound complexity represented even _before_ the sun got to it. But then again, neither could anyone else. John was just odd, that way.

"You've got a birthday coming up, haven't you?" Scott began. _(Not what he'd wanted to discuss, really, but a harmless enough opening.)_

John set the heavy silver table knife down, and appeared to consider.

"Yeah," he replied after a moment, shaking the pale hair out of his face. "21 October, 12:02 pm, Central Time."

Said Scott,

"Anything special you'd like?"

Birthdays had become sort of a take-or-leave proposition, once everyone left home… but back in Wyoming, their grandmother had never forgotten.

"A gassed-up plane, and my PhD," John responded. Like Scott, he mostly wanted his life back.

Scott smiled, commiserating.

"How about some vintage Japanese baseball cards and a case of beer, instead?"

John covered the soggy diagrams with a napkin. (Scott never did find out what he'd been designing.)

"Sure," his brother said, referring to the cards. "That works." Then, as if suddenly recalling his long-absent manners,

"Thanks."

Okay, so… time for what he _actually_ needed to say.

"Listen," Scott began, all at once terribly serious. "I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, when we meet with Dad. Maybe we'll end up staying here… or he might just pack us off again, after letting us know where we stand in the business. But, um…"

This part was tough, but _someone_ had to know, and telling things to John was like dropping pebbles into a deep well; the words disappeared into cold, dark water, making slight ripples that slid outward, met stone, and quickly died.

"…I guess I've been kidding myself, about being able to fly for the Air Force, still. I've come up with one excuse after another to dodge the flight surgeon, and because of that damn medal they've let me have some space… but the truth is, once they figure out how badly I've screwed up my back… I'm going to be grounded. They'll promote me right the hell out of my squadron, out behind a desk, somewhere."

Scott looked down, and his hands clenched into fists, leaving smudges on Kyrano's mirror-polished table.

"I can't…" he began, feeling the sudden upwelling of a misery so bewildering-deep that it took away vision, thought and warmth.

Granddad had taught him to fly; the Air Force had put him at the controls of a fierce, powerful warbird… and now it was all coming apart.

"If they do that to me, John… ground me… I'm going to cage one last ride, and then fly her into the side of a mountain."

He looked up at his brother again, meeting blue-violet eyes the exact shade of his own.

"I just wanted you to know, when you get the news, that I _wasn't_ hypoxic, or exhausted. That I meant to go out that way, is all. Okay?"

John didn't answer him directly. Instead, he looked away and began piling all of his silverware atop the napkin-covered plate; tidying.

"What if Dad really does want you to test pilot some kind of prototype 'wonder bird'?" He ventured, sounding almost clinically detached, "Still stupicidal then?"

Scott hesitated, torn between the urge to embrace his brother, or beat the shit out of him. In the end, he threw a crumpled napkin. It missed, ruffling a few strands of ice-blond hair.

"I don't know," Scott replied, smiling a little; at once amused and aggrieved. "I guess it depends what kind of aircraft we're talking about, and what the mission is. In the Air Force, I wasn't just a corporate jet-jockey. I made a difference, every day. Who the hell knows what Dad's got in mind?"

A second, smaller splash from beyond the patio announced that TinTin had joined Virgil in the pool. Her high-pitched, excited chatter was exactly like that of a small monkey.

"Well," John mused, pushing back from the table. "I think you shouldn't do anything in a hurry. You never know what's coming around the corner, next. Conditions may improve, or they may not… but _some_ sort of change is a given."

John glanced a little up and sideways, a brief flash of sunburn and almost-amethyst.

"Mom told me that, once."

Right. Scott knew as well as John did, how their mother would have reacted to any talk of his deliberately flying a plane into the deck. Bringing her up was a cheap, but effective, shot; unsurprising from someone who hardly _ever_ fought fair… but meaningful.

Scott suspected that John mostly avoided thinking about their mother… and that flaying himself like this, just to make a point, must have cost something. Okay. Chapter read, and understood.

He started to place a hand on John's shoulder, but his brother twitched aside. Neither crumpled napkins nor Scott's emotions were going to hit him, this afternoon.

So…

"I won't do anything sudden," Scott promised aloud.

Together, at the pilot's halting pace, they rose and went out to the stone-flagged patio. Virgil and TinTin had set up a game of catch with one of those water-slurping 'Sploosh' balls. Mostly, they threw wild and hard, aiming to inundate each other. Shouts of mock wrath, squeals of girlish laughter, and wave upon wave of chlorinated water rocked the pool deck, putting birds to flight and drawing Kyrano's disapproving face to the kitchen window. Her father knocked, and shook his head, but TinTin seemed not to notice.

"Our gear is still down at the campsite," John reminded his older brother, after watching for a bit. "We ought to bring it back."

"Yeah…" Scott replied wearily, not relishing the thought of all that hiking. "Listen, why don't you and Virge go, with TinTin? I'll wait here, in case Dad needs anything."

John nodded once. With a sudden, slight smile, he said,

"Thanks again. For the baseball cards, I mean."

…As though his birthday had already arrived, and the gifts been unwrapped. _(But he'd always been a firm believer in retro-causality.)_

"No problem. Thank _you,_ for hearing me out."

They shook hands, then parted company for a time; there on the patio amid potted plants and spots of scattered sunlight.

Next morning, all three brothers had gathered again, meeting in the plush, oriental-themed foyer of their father's sick room. Jeff Tracy had just been transferred from the island infirmary to a private, 'working' suite, where the family might convene in relative comfort.

Faintly, through ornate wooden doors, they could hear him snapping out teleconference commands to a huddle of distant vice presidents. Kyrano had bowed himself inside a few moments earlier, promising to summon Scott, John and Virgil when their father paused in his doings.

He wouldn't have admitted it aloud, but Scott was nervous. Everything about their whole lives seemed to hang on this one meeting, and he had no idea what was going to happen… just that he was responsible for handling negotiations with Dad.

He'd barely touched his food that morning, swirling strips of toast around a soft-boiled egg until the yolk congealed. John hadn't even pretended to eat, while Virgil made do with far less than his usual three helpings of food and strong coffee. Smoked like a volcano, though.

Scott felt as though he were about to undergo the Flight Academy interview process, again. He'd dressed accordingly, in the sharpest charcoal-grey suit and conservative tie that Kyrano could provide. Virgil wore a green sports shirt and tan slacks. John was… John. Scott had no idea what it would take to make his brother trim that hair and don professional clothing, but clearly it wasn't a meeting with Jeff Tracy. No sense arguing about it, though. Not here.

All at once, their father's bass rumbling ceased. _Show time_. The left-hand door swung inward, hissing across soft, hand-loomed carpeting.

"Mr. Tracy can see you, now," Kyrano murmured, bowing gracefully. He ushered them within like a king's chamberlain, actually announcing the brothers' names and presence.

Jeff, on his cell phone, now, nodded absently, waving Kyrano away with his free hand. The slim manservant nodded, bowed once more and departed the room, shutting the door behind him.

With time to kill, Scott looked around. The chamber was large and well-lit, one entire wall consisting of translucent glass bricks. The floor was slate, covered here and about with subtly-patterned Persian rugs. Antique scrolls and woodcuts hung on the walls, and there were two Japanese swords displayed in their lacquered scabbards atop the book case. Medical equipment was present, as well, but cleverly hidden. At the sick room's far wall stood the wooden bed, high and proud on clawed lion's feet.

Within sat Jeff Tracy, master of a vast and powerful multi-national corporation. His hair was iron grey. He wore a blue robe and striped pajamas, and a lit cigar smoldered close by on a soapstone ash tray. He gestured frequently with one hand while holding the phone to his ear with the other (not quite trusting Bluetooth headsets on financial calls, even yet). There was a white cast on one leg, and both eyes were still shadowed by the faint, greenish smudge of departing bruises. Other than that, though, he looked good; fit, hale and absolutely in control.

With a swift, stabbing point, their father gestured to a small pile of stapled papers. Honest to God, they were agendas; meeting notes, with a list of bulleted discussion topics. First on the to-do list was:

**Welcome and Introduction**, followed by…

**Overview**,

**Mission Statement**, then…

**Your Role in the Organization**, and…

**Tour of Island Facilities**.

Each packet held about 10 differently colored sheets, professionally printed, and filled with corporate graphics. Puzzled, Scott handed each of his brothers an agenda. Evidently, they were expected to read up before their father got off the phone with InterBank.

Scott looked over at John, silently mouthing,

_'What the hell's he doing?'_

…But his younger brother merely shrugged. Virgil was reading, though; brows knitted and lips moving as he scanned a goldenrod-colored 'fact sheet'. John didn't care to look further, and Scott somehow couldn't. His eyes slid across long lines of black marks that might as well have been Mayan hieroglyphics for all that they signified.

Fortunately, their father soon concluded his business with InterBank. He broke the connection with a satisfied grunt, snapping his phone shut and setting it resolutely aside. There was a wall comm within easy reach. Jeff pressed the _send_ button, announcing,

"Kyrano, no calls or interruptions until further notice. I'm in conference. Tracy, out."

Trusting that his old friend and retainer would obey, Jeff switched off the comm.

"Boys, welcome," he said, with a brief nod. "Before we get started, I feel it's appropriate to thank you three for getting me out of the damn plane, yesterday. I appreciate the help, which dovetails rather nicely with my reasons for bringing you here."

He paused a moment, allowing Scott and Virgil time for a polite response.

(_'Any time, Sir.' 'No trouble at all. You'd have done the same.' That sort of thing.)_ John stayed quiet, but no one had really expected otherwise.

"Right, then," their father went on. "A little background is in order, but first… make yourselves comfortable."

There were several upholstered visitors' chairs against the glass-brick wall. Jeff indicated with a nod that Scott and his brothers were to draw them up and take a seat. That seen to… once all of the shuffling, chair scraping and quiet _'excuse me'_s had ended… Jeff Tracy resumed his speech.

"Good. Once again, I'd like to welcome you to Kanaho… or 'Tracy Island' as they're beginning to call it on the mainland. Boys, this is going to be home for awhile for several reasons, some having to do with your personal security. The others…"

He shifted in his bed, wincing a little as the broken leg twitched.

"…relate to a matter I've been pursuing privately for quite some time; one that ultimately failed."

For just an instant, Jeff Tracy's brown eyes clouded with something akin to loss, and his voice faltered.

"I… attempted to do something with the assistance of my chief engineer, the details of which I won't bring up. Suffice to say that a great deal of planning and capital have faded to black, along with a… a final hope of mine. _But…"_

And here, his voice changed, becoming louder, again; confident and persuasive as a politician's.

"…Any CEO who can't take a few hits and bounce right back isn't worth his ten-figure salary and corporate jet. I had another plan; a good one. I intended to recoup my research and investment capital by launching a private, for-profit space agency, one that would have flown circles around NASA and ESA, both. Unfortunately… and I put it down to sheer jealousy and lack of vision… I've found myself with no takers. Tracy Aerospace is one thing, it seems. The Tracy Space Agency quite another. And I quote: _Too much power and influence in the hands of one man._ End quote."

Jeff sighed disgustedly, picked up his cigar, and began puffing away like a factory smokestack.

"So, back to square one. The corporation, meanwhile, was doing better than ever, expanding into the southern hemisphere markets with g-mod grains and low impact, prion-resistant cattle. Always the same plan, gentlemen: feed and educate the masses, get them sold on your products, then buy land, build factories and put the grateful populace to work. Can't miss, provided the political situation remains nominal… which is yet _another_ problem."

He stubbed out the cigar, watching as shadowy trees swayed and bent beyond the glass-brick wall.

"There was a bombing last week at the Karachi plant. Did you hear about that? Over five hundred people trapped for eighteen hours, nine dead. The local rescue crews did what they could, of course… but I can't help thinking about all the high-tech gear available in the US, Europe and Asia that couldn't get onsite and operational in under twelve hours Some of the dead were killed immediately, in the initial blast, but a few others lingered awhile. They might have pulled through, if we'd just _gotten_ _to them_ in time. Instead, it's reparations, insurance pay-outs… and funerals."

Especially the funerals, which Jeff hated as much as his sons did, though he'd never discuss the matter with them, or anyone else. Never a very open man, Jeff Tracy; just a successful, driven one. He hauled himself out of grim reverie after a bit, looking sharply around at his oldest boys.

"Anyhow, in this life, when the door slams shut, a window opens. Three times, now, I've had my nose rubbed in the need to locate and rescue a lost or trapped victim; the need for better technology and faster transport, and for some way to get around all that goddam national-border-crossing red tape! WorldGov isn't working to my time table on this one, and people are dying because negotiations are stalled. If they can't legislate a solution, I'll _create_ one. Which takes us to the other reason for your presence here: International Rescue.

"Boys, I mean to design and build the biggest, fastest, most powerful machines that ever have or will exist. Planes, submarines, rockets, drills… everything you can imagine, and some things you can't."

_(Including a partly functional time machine, as it turned out.)_

"I intend to cross borders, pry into state and industrial secrets, and save lives. Here's where you three fit in: Scott, you're going to be my chief flight tester and rescue pilot. You'll be first to the danger zone, to assess the situation, treat with local authorities and run the actual mission.

"Virgil, once you've finished school (and on vacation times in between) you're going to work out the mechanics of pulling off a rescue. You're going to test equipment for me under simulated disaster conditions, with the aim of eventually leading my rescue teams into action. You've already hauled your share of climbers out of trouble in the Rockies and Tetons… here's your chance to make an even bigger impact."

Then, he paused. An uncomfortable silence ensued; one no one present knew quite how to safely bridge. Before, someone would always have provided a distraction; Mom, Granddad, Grandma… _someone_ would have intervened to prevent Jeff's undivided attention from colliding with John.

Scott started to say something, clearing his throat a little, but their father cut him off. Once again, Jeff Tracy's voice had changed, becoming low and deeply irritated.

"First of all," he snapped, "get that damn hair out of your face, and look me in the eye like a man. Second, _sit up."_

Very, very slightly, slow as window glass puddling at the bottom of an antique pane, John altered his posture.

…Except that he didn't straighten, but actually slumped lower in the chair. He _did_ look up, however. That was something.

Jeff's breathing roughened.

"Not that you'd give a good goddam, but I can't recall _ever_ being quite this disgusted… this _disappointed…_ with one of my sons. What you did at Princeton borders on criminal. And, _trust me,_ had Leisha Bonaventure reported that any actual theft took place, I'd have let the FBI throw you _and_ your worthless friends in prison… except that you'd probably enjoy the experience!"

Virgil surged to his feet about the same time that Scott did, coming between an angry father and his stone-faced son. Visibly upset, Virgil lost much of his grammar.

"Whatever you're trying to say, Sir, he ain't listening to," the young man interrupted, his words urgent and rushed. "So, how 'bout we take five? You know, mull things over and come on back after dinner to, uh…"

"To finalize the details," Scott supplied, yanking John out of his chair despite what felt like a nape-to-tail hernia. At this rate, he was going to wind up in traction.

Jeff Tracy's jaw was set like iron. Rather than speaking further, their father merely nodded.

Less than thirty seconds later, thank God, they were out of the room, Virgil still with a valley-folded agenda clutched in one hand. Eyes as big and sad as a collie's, he kept asking…

"Why'd he _say_ all that?" And then, bracingly,

"It's okay… I'm sure he didn't mean nothing by it, John. Just banged up and mad from the crash, is all."

Scott (propelling their silent brother along the corridor with a hand locked to his skinny arm) snapped,

"Virge, _enough_. You're not helping anything."

"Yeah… okay. I'm sorry. It's just…"

The younger man held his arms up and out, then let them drop to his sides again in a gesture of mystified defeat.

"I don't get _why._ John ain't done nothing bad. Not really."

"John hasn't done anything wrong," Scott corrected, as their mother would have done.

"John can hear you," their brother muttered. "And he doesn't care what I did. He cares that I made him look bad. Not that it matters."

They left the house in a quick damn hurry, heading for the sunny lower pool deck.

"I agreed to his bullshit terms. I'm here. End of argument."

The lower deck wasn't far enough away (at this point, _McMurdo Sound_ would barely have sufficed) so they proceeded through a wrought-iron gate, finding themselves a shaded garden bench some ways from the house.

Once the brothers had settled, Scott removed his jacket and tie, and turned to John.

"Did you have any idea what he had in mind?" the pilot demanded.

John shook his head.

"I figured that he wanted me where I wouldn't get into any more 'trouble'… but I wasn't sure about you two, or why he picked the back of f-ing nowhere."

His voice was strangely distant; distracted. He didn't sound much like his usual self, just then, adding,

"Information should be free."

"I think," Virgil cut in, growing angrier after the fact, "That we oughta go straight back up there and make him apologize. I mean… _whatever,_ okay? All that money don't give him the right to make people feel bad, nor run their lives, neither."

"I'm fine," said John. "And he's _not_ that wealthy."

"Question is," Scott mused, "Was he serious about this rescue stuff? Or is he just setting up some kind of tax write-off? You know, a 'charitable relief organization'; Tracy-CEF, or something."

And what should they do about it, if their father really meant to save the world?

TinTin surprised them at conference a few minutes later. Slipping down from house-ward, the girl clutched something tightly beneath her flowered shirt. She flushed with confusion when all three brothers turned her way.

"This is, perhaps, poor timing, Messieurs?" she whispered, pulling forth what appeared to be a fancy PDA.

"I was thinking with regret that I did not know more of the nature of Doctor Hackenbacker, and so I… here is one of his planning devices," the girl concluded desperately, at once eager to please, and ashamed of herself.

Whistling sharply, Scott reached out for the gun-metal sleek little computer.

"You got this from Hackenbacker?" he asked, attempting to turn the thing on. No luck; it was password-locked.

"It was laid quietly by, Scott…forgotten in one of the design laboratories. I saw, and brought it forth for you. But… if you prefer… if I have done wrong, I will return to _il Prof_ his thinking device."

Scott shook his head, frowning down at a stubbornly dark screen.

"No. You're fine, Hon… accurate intelligence is half the battle, trust me. And we've been flying blind."

He turned away from her, then, holding the captured PDA out to John.

"Can you get in?" he asked.

Rising, his brother replied tiredly,

"Sure… but I promised to stop."

Scott gave him a very stern, very direct look.

_"Break_ your promise."

"Yeah?" John asked, seeming all at once terribly uncertain.

"Yeah. Do it. We need to find out what the hell's really going on here, John, and information retrieval seems to be your specialty. It's in the line of duty, and we'll put the PDA right back when we're through, with no one the wiser. Go to work."

Reassured, John nodded silently, drew a flashdrive from his pocket, and then sat down. (Easier to get things done, that way.) The flashdrive was inserted into the captured computer's USB port, granting John a form of instant access, though not yet control.

The others peered over his shoulder as he worked, fascinated by the rapid application of password cracking techniques. All of those flashing numbers and command lines made little sense to them, but looked amazingly technical, even so.

"You call that a password?" John growled, a few minutes later. _"23?_ That's not just predictable; it's insulting… and no way at all to protect a pretty thing like this one."

(Oddly, John was often more talkative and personable with machines than he was with other people.)

Scott resisted the urge to hurry his brother. John's scrolling perusal of Hackenbacker's notes seemed to take hours, for he insisted on thoroughly examining each projectable diagram and map.

Finally, he switched off the PDA, removed his flashdrive, and leaned back. He looked very sober.

"_Well_…?" Scott prodded, recovering the titanium-cased computer.

"He's serious. These designs are incredible; the technology's like nothing I've ever seen, Scott, and that's saying something. Dad really means to build a secret rescue organization. Hackenbacker's his engineer, physician and resident genius, you two are pilots, and I'm island-based tech support."

Something flashed across John's face that tried to be a smile, but failed.

"Good enough to keep you off the mountainside?" John asked him.

Virgil and TinTin looked on, confused, as Scott struggled to find a response. What he finally came up with was,

"Maybe. If you guys are aboard, then I'll give it a try… but I need to go hash a few things out with Dad, first. _Alone._ Could be we just got off on the wrong foot, this morning… it's been awhile, and he might need a few squad-communication hints."

Scott started to slip Hackenbacker's PDA into one of his pockets, but John stopped him.

"No, Scott. _I'll_ put it back." Rising, his brother added, "Dad trusts you, and it's better that we keep it that way. If _I_ get caught sneaking into the lab, I'll just be confirming his suspicions; you've still got a relationship to protect. Besides… I'd like to speak with, um… 'Hackenbacker'."

TinTin took a very deep breath and squared her shoulders. Daringly, she reached out to take John's hand.

"Then I, too, shall go. It was I who took the computer, John, and I shall not allow you to face alone its return. If you are discovered, I shall raise a clamor to distract your captors."

John shook his head disbelievingly, but allowed his hand to go on being held.

"You can come along as far as the lab complex, TinTin," he told her, "but after that, you're gone. I don't want you getting in trouble with your dad."

TinTin squeezed his hand. Raven-haired, skin glowing like ivory in the tropical sunlight, she insisted…

"I know many ways into the laboratories, John. There will not be trouble with parents, for either of us. You have my very firm vow."

She meant it, too. For once, John had no smart-ass comments to make. All he did, as Scott set off to confront their father and Virgil began to pace, was follow the little girl.


	7. 7: Arrangement

A minor, one-word edit.

**7: Arrangement**

_Tracy Island-_

Scott left his brothers and TinTin, determined to wrest control of a very odd situation. His father, who was quite wealthy and powerful enough to have almost never heard the word 'no', had apparently decided to create a rescue organization.

One for the supermarket tabloids, that... even if he _hadn't_ press-ganged Scott, John and Virgil into service, testing his futuristic aircraft and rescue vehicles.

In the long, jarring, fifteen-minute walk from garden bench to sickroom, Scott reasoned out what he wanted to say, and why. Peeling layers of emotion away like bits of fragile mica, he struggled to get at the facts. If only he weren't so damned nervous!

Since the death of their mother, meetings with Dad had come to take on the aspect of military fitness interviews; of three young heirs being paraded before the king and given occasional approving nods (or, in John's case, a heavily red-lined Article 15).

At the big double doors to his father's sickroom, Scott paused. He wiped his palms on the legs of his pants, then knocked once, opened the left-hand door, and walked right in. _This_ time, he would not be kept waiting like a damn insurance salesman.

At first, the grand, light-filled room appeared deserted. The bed was mussed, but empty, his father's phone and laptop side-by-side with the stacked remains of his failed meeting agenda. Then, a side door opened, and Jeff Tracy came hobbling painfully forth; from the bathroom, evidently. His face was set in grim, craggy lines, and he looked as determined as Scott must have, forcing himself up the walk and back to the house.

Scott sighed, mentally tore up his script, and walked over. Physical pain at that level was a shared bond; one they might not discuss, but couldn't ignore. Without a word, he took his father's arm on the broken-leg side, and supported Jeff's limping retreat. His father smelled of hand soap and cigars, and (injured or not) seemed anything but weak.

The bed was mechanized; a fully-equipped hospital berth cleverly disguised as a high-end antique. Right now it was lowered nearly to the floor, allowing Jeff simply to ease himself onto the adjustable mattress.

Scott helped the wounded man to swing his legs up and over, then pulled the blankets back into place. It felt very, very odd; very unaccustomed. His father (Air Force officer, astronaut and CEO) _never_ needed help. Not from his sons, at any rate.

To give them both some think time, Scott turned to the nightstand, took the glass of tepid water he found there, and went to the marble bathroom to pour it out. Deep breath… then back to the bedside.

There was a silver pitcher on the nightstand, dewed with condensation up to the level of the water within. He poured his father another glass, and held it forth. Ice cubes clinked. Silhouetted against the glass-brick wall, his father's head tipped back as he finished the water. Meanwhile, slowly, the bed rose, becoming once more almost a throne.

At last, Jeff Tracy handed over the glass, looked his oldest son in the eye and said,

"Well?"

_Not the easiest of openings…_

Scott set the glass down and squared his shoulders. The suit jacket and tie were gone, left behind on a garden bench. In just a rumpled shirt and trousers, his polished shoes now rock-scuffed and muddy, he felt ill-prepared. Still, he might never get another such chance to say what was on his mind. In the face of all this turmoil, even his back pain had faded to a dull throb.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you. We've been talking things over and, um… we've got a few questions for you. Some requests."

Jeff smoothed out his bed covers. Much like John, when thinking, he liked to tidy things up.

"Fire away. Let's hear the list of demands."

"Yes, Sir," Scott nodded. The lump in his gut forced a sudden return to the script.

"It, uh, seems to me that one of my jobs, if I'm to be your 'field commander', is to serve as a go between, passing directives from headquarters to the troops. At Kunsan, I was a wing leader. The colonel told _me_, and I told my pilots. An outfit like the one you propose needs good communications, Sir. No misunderstandings or personality conflicts allowed, because those things damage objectivity and cripple the mission. So… you talk to me; let _me_ talk to them."

Scott was surprised to realize that his heart was thudding, and that his hands were icy where they pressed against his pants legs… but more surprised still when his father actually agreed.

"Right, then. Consider yourself a wing leader here, as well. And tell your brother…"

(He was referring to John.)

"…that I meant what I said, but that maybe there was a more effective way to phrase it, and that I'm… certain he's learned his lesson, and will use better discretion in the future. Just… add something appropriate to wrap it up."

Scott cocked his head.

"Like: _I'm sorry?_" he suggested, bracing himself.

Oddly, though, there came no explosion.

Jeff looked down, seeming all at once terribly exhausted. When he returned his gaze to Scott's, some of the flint and steel had gone.

"Sure. If you think it'll help."

There was an awful lot of turbid, angry water under that particular bridge, and the floodgates showed no sign of closing.

"Next item on the agenda?" Jeff prompted, when the silence between them had dragged well past comfort.

Scott nodded once more. This one would (hopefully) prove simpler.

"I… _we've_ got another request, Sir. We'd, um… like to have Grandma brought to the island. For one thing, she's by herself at the ranch, and that's not safe; for another, she's too damn stubborn to slow down and take care of herself, now that Granddad's gone… And, besides, _somebody's_ got to teach Kyrano how to cook."

His father snorted.

"The Cordon Bleu Culinary Arts Academy just isn't good enough for you three?" he asked, smiling.

Scott smiled back, saying,

"Not all the time, Sir; no. We're _Americans._ Every once in awhile, we've got to have peanut-butter-and-jelly, mashed potatoes with lumps, or a hot dog."

Jeff winced, less over his sons' preferred menu than the thought of facing his tiny, sharp-tongued mother. Obviously, he was now going to be spending a great deal less time on the island.

"She'll be here by Thursday," he sighed. "Next?"

Scott shifted position. Standing for long periods of time was uncomfortable, as was his upcoming, difficult-to-frame question.

"Yes, Sir. I… was wondering, in light of this International Rescue idea of yours, if mom's death had any…"

"_Stop."_ Jeff Tracy did not raise his voice. He didn't have to. Grim as an executioner, he said,

"Scott, I've heard you out. I'll let you 'translate' for me, and I'll even have your grandmother brought here, to provide you with a sense of home… but I'll be _damned_ if I'm going to justify myself. My reasons are my own, and they're going to stay that way. Now… you can be part of this, or not, but I won't have my motives questioned by you, or anyone else. _End… of… subject_. Understood?"

No, not really. He wanted to be able, just _once_, to sit down with his father as he had with John and Virgil; beer in hand, squinting at the sunset… and talk. No such luck, though. Not now, and maybe not ever.

"Understood, Father."

"Good. Tomorrow, I'll formally introduce my chief engineer, Doctor Hackenbacker, and we'll proceed from there. He'll be able to resolve most of your medical issues, and… trust me, Scott… together we're going to make a positive difference in the world. Maybe not openly, or the way other people would have us do it, but we're going to save lives. We're going to change things, starting with the people everyone else has given up on."

Scott nodded, allowing himself to believe that for once, his father's motivation wasn't money, or power. That, just maybe, Jeff Tracy was actually trying to do something good.

They shook on it (a firm, deal-making handclasp) and Scott left the room, headed for his first assignment in 'translation'.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Earlier, John Tracy had allowed himself to be led off by TinTin. He'd tucked the PDA in his jeans' pocket (not the one containing his flashdrives), too deep in thought to much feel the girl's guiding hand, or see the passing gardens. Like Scott… hell, all of them, really… he had a great deal on his mind.

The designs he'd glimpsed had been technically brilliant, incorporating advances of jaw-dropping potential… but he couldn't help wondering about the power source. To get up and away as quickly and quietly as outlined, those craft were going to need something a good deal kickier than av-gas or liquid hydrogen. Antiprotons, maybe…? With some kind of futuristic guidance and thrust system incorporating dark energy's antigravity effects?

The rest of the universe pin-holed even further, as John began seriously thinking. He tuned in and out of TinTin's bright chatter, catching the bits that darted past his equations like tropical fish through bleached coral. They were pretty notions, swift bubbles of laughter, at once annoying and entertaining.

This camera obscura world was ripped wide open when his hand was squeezed tight and TinTin whispered,

"From this point, John, we must proceed with the much greater caution and quiet."

Okay, he hadn't exactly been babbling…

They stood at the rear of the mansion, before a recessed steel door marked _'Service Entrance'._ Two giant Bird-of-Paradise plants flanked the alcove, hiding the door from casual inspection.

"It would seem as though to bring one to the kitchens, _n'est-ce pas_? But, _en fait_, the door is open to _les laboratoires du Professeur_, in the… the 'way behind'."

"Back door," John supplied absently, half listening to the scrape of sword-shaped leaves on painted steel. "Unlocked, hopefully?"

"_Toujours_," she replied, smiling up exactly as though he deserved such trust. He had, of course, engaged in a certain amount of 'infiltration hacking' and 'social engineering'. He knew how to crack security physically, as well as online, though… for some reason… John found himself wanting to keep this from TinTin. She continued brightly,

"It is but a matter of being recognized, and we both have the good reasons in the house, no?"

No. But it was nice that she thought so.

"Straight on from here?" he asked, disengaging his hand to tap lightly at the top of TinTin's head.

She scrunched her face up, reasoning, maybe, that if she said 'yes', he'd have no further need of her services.

"_Non_. It is, in truth, not so simply accomplished, John. There are turnings to follow, _et_… and I have yet to tell where, precisely the computer was located. I will be very quiet, Monsieur," she added anxiously. "I am often prone to be seen and not heard, as becomes a young lady."

Maybe the big, dark eyes got to him, or maybe he just didn't feel like doing this alone. Whatever, TinTin was still with him when John Tracy entered the lab complex.

It reminded him rather of the generator site; bare concrete floors, fluorescent lighting and plenty of grim warning signs posted at each windowless door. Clearly, besides being business-like as hell, 'Hackenbacker' cherished his privacy.

They threaded the maze in ten short minutes, less like Theseus and Ariadne than a couple of waifish industrial spies. Further in, there were cameras, which he shut off at a suspiciously handy security console. Like, it all but featured a big, red 'off' button. Needless to say, John pulled out one of his flashdrives and applied a key-stroke retrieval program to find the _actual_ cut-off protocol. Wasn't any damn off switch, or '23', either. Hackenbacker's stock rose considerably in John's eyes at the real password's complexity. Better… but still improvable. (As a few swift adjustments made obvious.)

Curious, the girl asked him,

"What is it that you are doing, John?"

Um…

"Just checking to be sure the security's adequate. There's a lot of valuable stuff, down here."

She nodded seriously, long dark hair swinging around her face and shoulders.

"It is good, then, that you have come to help _ton pere_ and Doctor Hackenbacker keep safe their machines."

Another trusting glance and hand-squeeze. Damn. The girl was a first-class security system all by herself.

"Okay," he said, at the very next door. "This is as far as you go, TinTin. From here on, it's all me. See you outside."

If he'd expected childish pleading, he didn't get it. Instead, the girl gave him a swift, nervous hug.

"Very well, but I shall still be close, if distraction is required."

Right. In pretty near the same situation, Autumn Drew had dumped his ass. His damn _girlfriend_ had left him to the feds. Meanwhile, TinTin wasn't just stepping up to the plate, she was swinging for the bleachers, ready to risk everything for someone she hardly knew, and wouldn't have liked much, if she had.

Very briefly, John touched her shoulder.

"Not necessary, TinTin… but thanks. I'm good."

One thing… though he didn't say so aloud… whatever John Tracy was worth as a friend, she'd more than earned. Someday he might even have a chance to prove it. Now, though, he had work to do. Shooing the girl away, John went on, alone.

He'd disabled all the door locks along with Hackenbacker's security cameras, allowing him to follow TinTin's hastily whispered directions with ease. Some of the rooms were enormous; vast chambers containing 3-D print machinery large enough to churn out a school bus. Others were packed with softly humming computer equipment or blackened video monitors. Interesting, all of it, and John had to several times remind himself that this was a social call, not business. Otherwise, he'd have found the nearest computer, pulled out a flashdrive and begun copying files. He'd always been curious, especially about that which others wanted to hide. …And there was certainly a lot of hidden stuff, here.

Fortunately, the right room showed up before his resolve broke. Hackenbacker's work bench was shoved against a far wall, exactly as TinTin had described; down to the coffee rings, haphazardly piled papers and overflowing waste basket.

Stepping cautiously further into the small lab, John shook his head. Engineers and scientists seemed to fall into two categories; tidy sorts (such as himself) and utter, complete slobs. Hackenbacker was evidently among the latter.

'_By the coffee cup,'_ she'd told him. John drifted over to the Formica workbench, gazing at an unpleasant heap of chewed pencil stubs and deeply-stained mugs. Coffee cup? Which one?

He supposed (applying empirical methods) that he might try to determine which mordant caffeine puddle seemed freshest; the Einstein cup's, that in the periodic table mug or the king-sized black Princeton stein with the chipped handle. ….But from John's perspective they were equally, _festeringly_ rank.

Unable to decide, he chose a spot equidistant to all three, and then set the PDA down amid yellowed and curling printouts. He'd started to draw a few papers over the small computer, by way of extra concealment, when a voice said, testily,

"Th- that will, ah… will not be n- necessary, young man."

Someone else had entered the room. John pivoted, facing the source of that sharp, impatient voice. The guy from the crash it was, dark-haired and disheveled in an ink-stained lab coat and smudged glasses.

"Th- there were _functional_ cameras in, ah… in m- my lab, before you tampered w- with them, and I am quite aware of, ah… of who took the PDA."

But, maybe, not _why._

"It wasn't her idea," John lied (as badly as ever). "I put her up to it, because I wanted to know what Dad was up to."

Dark brows twitched together behind black-rimmed spectacles. John's gaze dropped to the table top. He'd blown it; utterly blown his chance to meet… converse with… the greatest applied physicist since Enrico Fermi.

"The device was, ah… was l- left out deliberately," the engineer continued, "and c- contained nothing which you, ah… you w- wouldn't have learned soon, in, ah… in any case. But your r- reputation precedes you, and, ah… and we n- needed to learn whether you can be t- trusted with sensitive data."

_We?_ Inside his pockets, John's fists clenched. Had he been able to do so with a button press, he would have deleted himself. Add 'stupid' to 'dishonest', though, because he might have cleared himself, won something back, by placing blame for the theft on TinTin. But the girl had meant well, and she trusted him… and these things mattered. Instead, very quietly, he said,

"I've read your book."

The engineer seemed to freeze, becoming all at once so still and silent that John could hear a sensor humming away on the wall behind him.

"M- My _what?"_ Hackenbacker demanded, after a sudden, sharp breath.

"Your book: _Temporal-Spatial Navigation in Ten Dimensions_ by Dwight Bremmerman, PhD. There was a copy at the Firestone Library, and my girlfriend tracked down another off the internet, for Christmas. There's an old black-and-white picture of you on the dust jacket, inside back cover. Um… So, I recognized you."

The older man (engineer, physicist and recluse) altered his stance. From having his arms folded across his chest, he clasped ink-smudged hands behind his back.

"I th- thought that I'd, ah… I'd bought up all p- publicly available copies of that thing," he muttered.

John shook his head, saying,

"You missed two that I know of, Doctor Bremmerman. One is upstairs in my backpack, the other's at Princeton. Whatever. Nice chatting with you, but I've got to go. Other people to piss off… data to steal… you know how it is."

He'd turned to go, but the engineer's next question stopped him short.

"Why, ah… why d- did you decide to, ah… to bring it back, John? Th- the PDA, I mean. S- Safer, surely, to let, ah… let TinTin do so? You w- would not then have, ah… have been implicated."

John shrugged, but he stuck miserably, stubbornly, to his lie.

"Look, it wasn't her idea. She wouldn't have taken the damn thing, except that she was trying to help… and I'd appreciate it if you leave any reference to her out, when you report back to my dad. Alter the surveillance tapes; make a video loop, or something. You got your suspect, end of story. Can I go, now?"

Like other things too overwhelming to deal with, the matter was packed in ice and shoved very deep within him, to join a growing stack of other losses.

"A- Actually, John, I b- believe that, ah…"

The fire alarm went off; ice-pick shrill and loud enough to quiver the pencil stubs around on Hackenbacker's workbench. The distraction.

John had a sudden, strong impression (almost as clear as though she were there in the room) of TinTin.

"What the h- hell?" the engineer mouthed, trying vainly to cut on his video monitors from a nearby console. No use, of course; only John could re-enable them, which he did with a few rapid key strokes, shouldering Hackenbacker brusquely aside.

"There's no fire," John muttered, though, of course, Hackenbacker would pretty soon figure that out for himself.

The alarm ceased its wild keening as, one by one, the Island's security sensors returned negative results.

"False alarm," Hackenbacker called over the house comm. "Repeat, false alarm. There is no, ah… no f- fire. Just t- testing the system."

Upstairs, Scott resumed walking and Kyrano his meal preparations. Virgil, though, kept running for the house. Turning his attention back to John, Hackenbacker said,

"I th- thank you for, ah… for returning m- my device, John, and for k- keeping (hopefully) what you've l- learned about me to yourself."

Bremmerman… now Hackenbacker… put forth a hand.

"It will b- be a distinct pleasure to, ah… to work with s- so gifted and honorable a colleague."

Weird day. A couple of hugs, a fire alarm, his brothers and a handshake, against Dad's scathing distrust. Really, no contest. Reaching tentatively outward, John accepted the gesture.


	8. 8: Afar

Mostly edited. Thanks Boleyn, Cathrl, Tikatu, Zeilfanaat and Eternal Density.

**8: Afar**

_Tracy Island-_

The Island had a pier of concrete and volcanic rock which projected about a hundred and fifty feet into the glass-clear waters of a sheltered harbor. A bright red power boat was tied up there, beneath a sort of shed. Long and sleek, even in stillness the craft looked arrow-swift. It was not, however, Virgil's goal that morning.

There was another craft moored at the pier; a gleaming white, 40-foot sailboat with _"Tracy 3"_ painted across her stern. Virgil, sketchpad and art box in hand, stepped off of the rocky shore and onto the dock. The sun was pretty well up by then (he'd taken a tunnel from the house to get there, and hadn't been long outdoors) its soft light gilding a calm sea. Perfect drawing conditions.

He walked along the pier, watching small birds dive-bombing the water after silvery minnows. A quiet morning. Other than the birds' shrill piping, or the distant mew of wheeling gulls, there was only sea breeze and wave slap for noise.

Virgil stopped beside the gently bobbing sailboat. He'd have felt funny shouting… _"Ahoy, there…!"_ So, all that the football player-turned-artist called out was,

"Hey! Anybody home?"

The sailboat had two sleeping cabins, a galley, a dining area… even a shower and head… and several days ago John Tracy had scooped up his backpack and moved on in. Still part of the family; just, _away._

His blond head poked up from below deck. Unhurriedly, John looked around for awhile before regarding Virgil, who stood watching him from the dock. Something…

Virgil nearly dropped his art box. His brother had finally cut that hair. He stared, dumb-struck, almost missing the hand-up that John had climbed over to extend him.

"Uh…"

"I cut it," his brother clarified.

"Yeah. I noticed, John. Any particular… I mean…"

_"Not,"_ the tall young man interrupted, jerking his newly-lightened head toward the house, "because of him."

For the first time, Virgil noticed that his older brother held some sort of brochure. Funny… much as he'd needled John about the long hair, Virgil had gotten accustomed to it; considering that silver-blond curtain a part of his brother's personality, almost. He'd have felt disoriented even if the deck beneath his feet _hadn't_ been swaying like a hammock. But,

"You remember Pete McCord?" John was asking.

Vaguely. 'Uncle Pete' had long ago ceased to be a familiar presence in the Tracy household.

"Yeah… some. He sends me Navy stuff in the mail, once a year. Old astronaut buddy of Dad's… right? What about him?"

John handed Virgil the colorfully printed brochure: NASA.

"There was something new in this year's birthday draft notice."

_"Whoa._ You're going to space?"

A long time ago, Virgil had asked his older brothers to help him get onto the local football squad. They'd been nearly as incredulous then as he was, now.

"I'm applying for the Astronaut Corps. I talked to Pete last night, over T-3's comm. He told me to lose the hair and enter Princeton's NASA internship program first, to build some credible references. So… yeah. He's going to help me get in."

There were hard benches along the boat's fiberglass gunwales. John fished a blue seat cushion from a nearby locker, then tossed it to Virgil, fetching another for himself. They sat down.

Besides pastel crayons, paints and charcoal sticks, in his art box Virgil had a few small cartons of cereal. He gave them all to his brother, who (as far as he could tell) was subsisting on peanut butter crackers and sunlight. John nodded his thanks, pulled open the top of the Froot Loops box, and began to eat. Meanwhile, Virgil set up his sketchpad and selected a thick willow charcoal stick.

The obvious question… why John even _wanted_ to follow his father's path, considering how much they seemed to loathe each other… remained unasked. But then, it was a "don't ask, don't tell" sort of family.

Instead, Virgil started drawing, enjoying the sheer, earthy pleasure of crumbling dark lines on white paper, black dust on his hands, and a swiftly emerging scene. Halfway through sketching the dock, he said,

"He's doing all right? Uncle Pete, I mean?"

John glanced up from his second box (the Raisin Bran).

"Yeah. Said he was glad _someone_ finally bit. He was starting to think we'd all died."

That got a brief chuckle out of Virgil.

"Naw… we just stink at communication… 'less someone's on fire, or something."

Then,

"Hey, the reason I came out here, besides preliminary sketches, was to remind you that Grandma's arriving today."

John nodded.

"Okay."

"Want to come along when we pick her up?"

His brother looked away.

"I guess," he said. But he got up pretty briskly thereafter, heading below in search of a fresh tee-shirt. Didn't even finish his breakfast.

Virgil grinned to himself, still drawing. There were three things guaranteed to positively motivate John; his car, a computer and Grandma. Yeah… things would be getting back to normal anytime, now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Four of them went down to the airstrip to claim the old woman; the three boys, and TinTin. The girl was permitted to come because her presence in the crowded cart gave Jeff an excuse to bow out, and because Kyrano hoped that the 'wealthy, noble lady' might provide TinTin with a stabilizing influence amid masculine chaos.

Grandma Tracy's flight ended a great deal more smoothly than Jeff's had. The plane was large (another Gulfstream) and the pilot and crew well-rested. Victoria Tracy had required frequent layovers, turning what should have been a 12-hour business flight into a 3-day, island-hopping meander.

The plane banked in, gleaming white as a gull in the afternoon sun. It skimmed the runway like fingertips gently brushing a pond, then touched down without so much as a bounce. Amazing what 24 hours in Honolulu, on double pay, could do for a pilot's skill.

The engines had no sooner ceased howling than everyone… three young men and a shy little girl… surged forward. Scott nearly jerked the boarding hatch out of the flight attendant's hands. The startled woman stepped aside, wise enough not to come between a hurtling Tracy heir and the object of his attention. Scott, his back in better shape than it had been for months, had gotten quite physical, lately.

He yanked the stairs down with a rattling thump, then raced up and into the plane. She was there, leaning slightly on a varnished walking stick and blinking up at him through terribly thick glasses. Her long silver hair was plaited and wound into a heavy knot at the back of her head. She still wore several layers of black velveteen skirts and a pair of old work boots, but had substituted a flowered Hawaiian shirt for her usual long sleeved denim blouse. Her face was wind-tanned and wrinkled as a dried-up apple, her limbs fragile as a bird's.

Scott would have liked to seize and lift his grandmother; shake and toss her… but, of course, he did no such thing. Acknowledging the pretty flight attendant's greeting with a brusque nod, he placed his big hands on either of the old woman's frail shoulders, and smiled. He had to stoop, to kiss her cheek.

"It's good to see you, Grandma," he told her, in an oddly hoarse voice. "It's _really_ good to see you."

Victoria Tracy reached up to pat her grandson's handsome face. He had her dark hair and heavy brows, but his size, his features and startling blue eyes were all Grant. Only around the mouth did he resemble Lucinda Tracy, his beautiful mother.

Scott enfolded her in a very gentle hug as she replied,

"Well then, Scott Aaron, I guess I'm that glad to see you, too. Help me on outta this damn contraption, and I'll be much obliged. Never could stand the miserable things."

They disembarked together, Victoria Tracy taking the steps slowly, head high, hand resting lightly on her grandson's proffered arm. She thanked the flight crew on the way out because, whatever her feelings about aircraft, they'd done their level best to set her down in one piece. You had to appreciate that. Now, as to what her son was up to…

At the foot of the stairs, she paused to look about, taking in the small cliff-side hangar, the velvety mountain and thundering ocean.

"Well, if that don't beat all," Grandma Tracy remarked, as Teddy, John Matthew and a young Chinese girl drew closer.

"…He truly up and bought himself a whole damn island! Like people ain't got cattle to feed and bills to pay!"

"I think it's tax-deductible," her oldest grandson offered. "Sort of like a home office."

Victoria snorted rudely.

"Waste of good money, you ask me," she muttered.

Scott handed her off to grandson number three, whom she always called 'Teddy' or 'Ted', after his middle name.

"How's my artist?" she asked, accepting another warm kiss and gentle hug. Withered plants get watered, and sometimes spring back to life; widowed grandmothers get called in to cook, snap orders and iron clothes.

"Grandma," Teddy said, and repeated it softer, _"Grandma…"_ like he'd lost his good sense.

Physically, Ted most resembled her son, his father, Jeff. In Virgil Edward Tracy, Lucinda's imprint was all inside. His sensitive, artistic temperament came from his mother, as did his skill at the piano and love of nature.

He released her after getting a playful knuckle rap, but continued to hover nearby whilst Scott pulled her baggage out of the plane.

John Matthew was next up, thin and fair as a moonbeam. He'd cut his hair, she noticed, and gained a hint of color. Tallest of her grandsons, he was also the most withdrawn, the most like vanished Lucy in appearance and intellect. He'd never seemed quite comfortable in Wyoming, nor Kansas, neither…

"Well, if it ain't Mister 'Fancy-East-Coast-School', himself!"

She reached out with both trembling arms, remembering many nights in a rocking chair, holding a silent, empty 7-year-old. Back then, she'd only guessed at how he felt. Now, with Grant no longer present… now, she _knew._

"Hey, Grandma," he said, calmly, leaning down close to embrace her. He smelled of sunscreen and aftershave, looked as dense and hard-packed as a cobweb.

"Boy, what the hell's the matter with that place? $150,000 a year, and they ain't taught you to lift a fork?"

John Matthew laughed; a very rare, very good sound.

"Maybe they tried, Grandma. I was too busy skimming data to notice."

"You don't say," she replied.

Actually, he _did_… though not very sensibly. Most of John Matthew's computer talk went right over her head. Always had.

Victoria sighed, tightened her hug, briefly, and then pulled away. The greetings weren't over, though. The Chinese girl edged up, timid and curious as a new fawn. All legs, big eyes and long hair, she was; pretty as a porcelain doll.

"Bienvenue, Madame Tracy, I am TinTin," she murmured, holding out a hand-made welcome card. The island had been drawn as a smooth green sugar loaf surrounded by curly blue water. A single palm tree rose from the island's peak, with six smiling stick figures clustered around it.

"We have not been introduced, Madame, but I feel that I know already the kind lady who raised three such strong and wonderful men."

_Well, then._ Victoria cleared her throat.

"Child, you got a kick like a thoroughbred mule," she observed dryly, accepting the card. "Call me Grandma."

Together, the newly reunited family piled into Kyrano's electric cart. Scott drove, Grandma sat beside him, her luggage riding in the very back, where Jeff had been stretched out the week before. The rear seat contained Virgil and John, sitting side by side, with TinTin on Virgil's lap, her coltish long legs resting sideways across John all the jouncing way home.

There was a welcome barbeque scheduled for later that afternoon, once Jeff Tracy had greeted his mother. Her firm gaze indicated that there was further talk to come; privately. Jeff paled, slightly. Scarce four foot, ten inches tall, Victoria Tracy still commanded her son's respect… enough so that he let the boys and Kyrano move her in, catching an errand elsewhere.

Around sunset the steaks were on the grill and the air filled with charcoal smoke and cooking smells. Grandma listened to one story after another (edited, of course), turned down offers of beer and red wine, but took a little iced tea. Scott and Virgil talked the most, and even shy TinTin was drawn out a few times, ordered to stop filling plates and _sit down._ Much to their surprise, Dr. Hackenbacker finally showed up. Drawn by the steaks, perhaps.

John listened far more than he talked. Sat a little straighter than usual, too. His father hadn't commented on the hair cut, nor the fact (reported by Kyrano) that John's backpack was once more upstairs on his bed. He accepted a plate, prepared by his grandmother. Didn't get a chance to eat, though.

The evening was mellowing into twilight when something very strange happened. He was sitting at a wrought iron patio table, putting salt on his french fries, when something happened to the sky. To everything, really.

All at once the scene… people, things, warm breeze, food smells and sparkling pool water… seemed to skew and fracture; as though they'd been images projected onto a cracked and leaking screen. It became, suddenly, very hard to breathe.

John's hand shot out, to steady himself against the wavering table. There was pain, radiating like acid fire from his legs. He knocked a beer bottle over onto Scott, drenching his startled brother. More of the barbeque faded, leaving behind a stench (somewhere between garbage and brimstone) and a feeling of terrible, bone-shattering cold.

Beyond Scott, yet somehow close enough to claw at with one heavily gloved hand was a wall of massed and broken stone; settling, still. Trapping him.

John coughed, and blood spattered the inside of his cracked… helmet? Almost at once, it began to crystallize there, silhouetted black droplets in the staticky green light of his heads-up display.

He tried to free himself (at the party, actually pulling the heavy metal table over) but hundreds of tons of shattered rock continued to clamp down like grinding jaws. Not merely pain. He was being crushed.

A flash of sunlight, alien here. Concerned voices and water… not from his emptied helmet supply (no iodine taste). Somewhere, they were fighting to reach him. Against cold and poisonous death, broken rock and hissing static on the one side, on the other lay warmth, air and clutching hands. Safety, if only there was time...

The rock above him made a noise; a low, despairing groan. It moved. Sagging, splitting, rupturing gouts of pebbles and dribbles of dark sand. Like somehow before. Only this time, he wasn't going to make it.


	9. 9: Cause and Effect

Second edits made. Thank you for you patience.

**9: Cause and Effect**

_Tracy Island, early evening-_

Cold beer all over his lap sent Scott Tracy rocketing to his feet. His brother, John, had knocked a damn bottle over. But Scott's mock-wrathful expletives, his awkward dive for the frothing, rolling beer, stopped short.

John had collapsed to the pool deck with a sudden, sharp grunt. His iron-curlicued chair was kicked violently backward; sent rattling and scraping across the mosaic-pebbled deck.

"Hey!" Scott called aloud. "John? You okay? _John?"_

For his younger brother had begun shivering wildly. His breathing had changed, becoming a series of harsh, panted gasps. Calling the others (who were already racing over from tables, grill and pool), Scott let the beer bottle smash to the deck and lunged instead for John.

Lying on his stomach, the fallen young man made a sudden upward grab. His right hand scored on the table's edge, and he tried to pull himself forward, seemingly unable to move his legs, or lower body. The wrought iron table fell over, striking the deck with a reverberating clang. In the jungle and gardens, birds screamed and bolted from the treetops. On the deck, the heavy table rolled, crushing several fingers on John's right hand. He didn't notice, instead behaving as though he were trying to tear at something in front of him, or dig.

Scott crouched at his brother's side, tried giving him a little water from a discarded glass. Nothing; no reaction at all.

_"John!"_ He shouted… cold-chills-and-raised-hair worried.

By this time, their father, Jeff, had arrived with Virgil a few steps behind (one still wearing his 'Lord of the Fries' cooking apron, the other dripping wet from the pool). Literally, John was turning blue. More worrisome still, he began coughing blood.

Jeff Tracy surveyed the situation for perhaps a heartbeat or so. Then he turned to run for the pool-side first aid kit.

"Scott, Virgil, stand away from your brother. Brains, see what you can do to stabilize him. I said _off!"_

For Virgil and Scott, ignoring orders, were still trying to comfort and revive John. Stupid, really, considering they hadn't a quarter of Hackenbacker's medical knowledge.

Meanwhile, TinTin was jumping hysterically up and down, hands clapped to her mouth to stifle her own sobs. Grandma Tracy reached her a moment later, and firmly pulled the tearful young girl around, so that she could no longer see what was happening to John Matthew.

"Hush, child, be still now. Causing a ruckus won't do anyone no good."

For her own part, Victoria Tracy stood upright and stone-faced. She might have been chiseled from the windward side of a mountain glacier. Resolutely, she refused to accept that she might lose someone else, so soon after Grant. _Surely,_ the Lord wouldn't take another one…?

Doctor Hackenbacker ran awkwardly, like a poorly animated scarecrow trailing wrinkled office-garb. Flinging his tie over one shoulder, the engineer dropped to the ground beside John Tracy and his stubbornly still-present brothers. Together, they got the young man rolled over.

Enough of Hackenbacker was detached from emotion to note his friend's condition; chilled and unresponsive, his pulse rapid, his breathing labored and shallow. Eyes open, but unseeing… or somehow seeing _past._

John's movements were oddly restricted; as though, in his own mind, something were pinning him down. Worse, he was visibly slipping into deep shock.

Hackenbacker glanced up at Virgil Tracy.

"Towels, t- table cloths… anything you can, ah… can b- bring back in a hurry. W- We need to c- cover him."

Virgil nodded, surged to his feet and sprinted for the changing rooms, snatching table linens on the way. Scott, too, wanted orders, but until the first aid kit arrived there was little else to do but combat shock and keep the young man breathing. John and 'Brains' had become fast friends in a very short time, a fact which made clear thinking much harder than it should have been.

Hackenbacker was not a medical doctor. In that era of staggering insurance rates, very few people were (outside of the military and government). The common folk might never see an actual doctor, making do instead with physician's assistants, former medics or a talented neighbor with stolen prescription pads and a computer.

Hackenbacker had arranged to get a physician's assistant license, and he had access to the giant medical database set up by the World Health Organization. In the infirmary there were bio scanners up-linked to WHO and the CDC, as anonymously as those of any movie star or crime lord. Once scanned, a patient would receive a diagnosis and course of treatment in mere seconds. Prescriptions, too… but all of this was at the infirmary, and John wasn't.

Virgil pounded over, carrying a stack of towels. He and Scott rolled a few of them up to place beneath their brother's feet and head, piling several more atop him. Jeff got there next. He'd had trouble prying the first aid kit off of its mounts, but finally worked it lose. There was nothing really useful inside, however. Bandages and antiseptic spray weren't going to help.

"S- Scott, Virgil: if I, ah… I c- could ask you to convey your b- brother to the infirmary, I'll b- begin treatment."

Scott nodded, but Virgil asked, anxiously,

"He'll be okay, right? He's just having a fit, or something?"

A real doctor would have known how to be subtle. The bootleg version said,

"I h- have no idea. W- We'll have to, ah… to see what the s- scanners turn up."

Working together, Scott and Virgil lifted their brother, keeping the towels wrapped warmly around him. Hackenbacker followed close behind with Jeff Tracy, Grandma and TinTin, leaving Kyrano behind to douse the grill and clean up.

Minutes later John was strapped down to the infirmary scanning table. Hackenbacker initiated the scanner's Med-Site uplink, requesting electroencephalography and blood-oxygen levels, in particular. In the meantime, he prepared to intubate, for John was barely breathing, his body temperature now dangerously low. Weirdly… it was almost as though warmth and oxygen were being sapped away, escaping like gravitons through some other dimension. Hackenbacker scurried around the infirmary, aware that the young man's relatives were expecting a miracle, one he wasn't at all sure could be provided.

The scanner pinged softly. The WHO computers had returned their results, together with a range of possible treatments. Hackenbacker examined the blood-oxygen data, first; 63 percent and dropping fast. On top of this, John had somehow become dangerously dehydrated. Judging by the swiftness of his decline, the young man had very little time left.

Doctor Hackenbacker ordered the surgical-bots to insert an endotracheal breathing tube, then checked John's brain scan. The electroencephalograph was every bit as bad, displaying a chaotic mountain range of frantic spikes. His oxygen-deprived brain was responding as though John was in savage pain. His own mind, apparently convinced that he was in terrible danger, was killing him.

Hackenbacker read the remainder of the scan rather hurriedly, paging down through a list of findings that seemed more appropriate to an overdose victim.

_Fracture of the fourth and seventh dextro-sagittal phalanges. Cause: blunt trauma._

_Vivid hallucinatory state. Cause: unknown._

_Asphyxia. Cause: unknown._

_Dehydration. Cause: unknown._

_Hypothermia. Cause: unknown. _

_Recommended treatment as follows:_

_1) Intubate_

_2) Administer intravenous saline_

_3) Raise body temperature_

_4) Administer thiopental to reduce brain activity_

_5) Catheterize_

_6) Splint fractured digits_

In other words, he was advised to plunge John Tracy into a medically induced coma, possibly the only way to quell the young man's dangerous hallucinations.

"M- Mr. Tracy," Hackenbacker said, turning toward his employer, "John is experiencing a h- hazardous level of, ah… of chaotic b- brain activity which must be d- depressed if your son is, ah… is to safely r- recover. I need to induce a coma, using s- some fairly powerful barbiturates. Thiopental h- has been recommended to, ah… to stop the delusions and s- seizure."

Deft surgical robots had shifted John Tracy to a nearby treatment table. Veins were located, saline-drip begun and a silver-walled breathing tube and bite block inserted. Virgil winced, muttering under his breath. Scott steadied his younger brother with a hand to his broad shoulder. Grandma, however, led TinTin away. Jeff ignored it all, saying levelly,

"How is a coma going to help? Aren't they dangerous?"

Hackenbacker nodded jerkily, tugging at his own tie and collar.

"Yes, Mr. Tracy, th- they are. B- But as it stands, John's atypical brain activity will, ah… will k- kill him soon, anyhow, if not c- controlled."

The tube was in, oxygen being forced through at hyperventilation rates. The table began to warm itself and John. Hackenbacker continued.

"I p- propose to, ah… to place him in 'hibernation' l- long enough to let his, ah… his body heal, then g- gradually wake him back up."

"What are the risks?" Jeff demanded, clutching hard at self-control.

"B- Blood clots, pneumonia and p- paralysis, Mr. Tracy, but h- he'll be closely monitored to, ah… to assure th- that none of these things occur. W- With your permission, Sir?"

Jeff Tracy was ordinarily the most decisive and firm of men… but now he was being asked to give the word that would plunge one of his sons into near brain-death. His earlier barb, that he'd have let the FBI jail the boy, suddenly made him want to vomit.

"Do what you have to, Brains," he said, finally. "Pull him through. I have faith in your judgment."

Brains nodded and got to work, ordering up a heavy dose of intravenous thiopental. Deeply worried, he also requested the online assistance of Bethesda Medical Center's chief neurologist. Dr. Crouse had quite a case load… but mentioning the name 'Tracy' got instant results.

Scott seized Hackenbacker's arm as he was turning away from the comm screen.

"Wait a minute," the pilot snapped, not liking what he'd heard. "What's thiopental? Just what the hell are you planning to do?"

"I don't h- have time for this," Hackenbacker muttered, regretting his earlier decision to let the family into his treatment room. "Scott, I'm, ah… I'm just putting y- your brother to sleep f- for awhile."

Unbeknownst to Dr. Hackenbacker, one of the very worst things that he could have said. Scott was instantly, unfortunately, reminded of another occasion, when he'd been lied to about Rusty, the family dog.

They'd lived in Kansas at the time, on McConnell Air Force Base. Dad was in Houston, training for a mission. The family could have moved down to join him, but Mom preferred to remain near Granddad and Grandma, away from the NASA spotlight.

Rusty was an Irish setter, and she'd been their dog as long as seven-year-old Scott could remember. Friend, playmate and protector, she'd even saved John's life, once… but now she was getting old.

At first merely stiff, Rusty worsened all that summer. By the time Scott started school in the fall, she could barely move her back legs or wag her plumed tail. The boys did their best to hide this from their mother. Scott had to leave for school each day, but John spent hours in the garage, encouraging Rusty to leave her bed, and cleaning up the mess when she couldn't.

They looked up the definition of arthritis, applied heating pads, brought her snacks and petted her, crouching low enough to have their faces licked. Basically, for most of a month, they lived in that garage. Scott did his homework there every night, releasing John to fetch drinks, and Virgil.

Naturally, their mother caught on, though she didn't confront her sons. One day, Granddad and Grandma came to the house, offering to take Scott and John to the base Halloween fair. Mom promised to look after Rusty, so the boys finally agreed to go.

It was John's first real outing in months, and he was at first terribly shy of the crowds. He clung tight to Granddad's hand on one side, and Scott's on the other, getting just as sick on cotton candy, popcorn, hotdogs and kiddy rides as his exuberant older brother.

A fun day, even when John got banned from the dart-throwing and rifle games for winning too often. Being fall, it was chilly out, and the temperature dropped with the sun. They gave away most of the toys John had won, saving a giant purple teddy bear for Virgil, and heading home before nightfall.

Over-stimulated, full of greasy fair food, both boys fell asleep on the way home, leaning on the teddy bear in the backseat of Granddad's green truck, surrounded by waning sunlight, pipe smoke and swirls of cold air from the slightly open windows. Only when they got home… when Granddad shook them awake and hauled both stumbling, yawning boys out of the truck… did they notice Rusty's absence. Even her bed and bowl had been taken from the garage.

All at once wide awake, the boys searched the house, and then rushed into the kitchen to confront their mother.

"Mom, where's Rusty? Where did you take her?" Scott demanded.

Lucinda Tracy turned away from the sink; lovely, calm and regretful.

"Scott, she was sick and in pain. I've looked the other way for weeks… but enough is enough." She took a deep breath, pushing a strand of pale blonde hair from her blue eyes with a hand that shook.

"I took her to the vet, with Mr. Carver's help… and they put her to sleep."

_To sleep?_

"But… she'll feel better when she wakes up, right, Mom? She'll be okay?"

Then John spoke up, his voice a numbed, icy whisper.

"She means that they killed her, Scott. They gave her a shot, and stopped her heart. Rusty's dead."

Aghast, their mother dashed forward, meaning to embrace her young sons. Both of them pulled away, Scott yelling and crying, tear-blinded; John silent and pained. Bad enough, but Scott soon made things worse.

Like John, he refused to eat supper, ending up sent to his room in disgrace. This set two-year-old Virgil off. That night, the entire house was in an uproar. When things finally quieted, Scott snuck back into the kitchen and liberated a box of Ritz crackers, a bag of marshmallows and a bottle of apple juice. He stuffed them into his school bag and went off in search of John, whom he found sitting in the garage beside Rusty's old spot.

His little brother didn't look up when Scott eased through the laundry room door, but Scott went over, anyhow. Leaning down, he took John's cold hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on," he whispered. "We're running away. I've got food, and your blue sweater. We're gonna find someplace where people don't lie and kill your best friend while you're at the fair. We're gonna live with Dad."

That was the plan, anyway. John said nothing, didn't protest when Scott led him out the door and into darkness.

They walked all night, avoiding the lights of passing security trucks and stopping occasionally for sips of juice. By morning, following Scott's many switch-backs, loops and culvert crawls, the boys were far from home and thoroughly lost, and John had developed a bad cold. They slept in a storm drain, waiting until late afternoon to down a few crackers, and creep forth.

John wasn't talking much, but Scott was too worried to care. By now, he figured, they should have reached Houston. Certainly, it hadn't looked all that far on the map…

Forcing himself to seem confident, Scott led their way through the tall grass and rusted hulks of an old bombing range. Stumbling across a shallow stream, they plucked a handful of late blackberries for supper (you could get pretty tired of cracker-and-marshmallow sandwiches).

On their second night outdoors, the wind picked up. There was no storm drain to sleep in. Instead, the boys huddled together between the roots of an old cottonwood tree. John slept a little, coughing himself awake each time, but Scott stayed up to keep back the darkness and creepy things with his penlight. Most of them, anyway.

One of the creepy things turned out to be friendly. A dog slunk up to them around midnight, just visible in the narrow beam of Scott's light. It was a medium-sized, black and white mutt with no collar; dirty, unkempt and as half-starved as Scott and John. Its ugly head was down and its scraggly-furred tail between its legs, but it sidled toward them, whining hopefully.

"Hey, girl," Scott whispered, holding out a hand. "Here, girl. Come here."

It turned out to be a boy, actually. Speaking for the first time that night, John offered the stray a cracker, saying,

"He's like Rusty. He's hairy."

…Which was how their new-found companion got his name. Harry eagerly devoured half a paper sleeve of crackers and several marshmallows. He was more than happy to curl up that night amid tangled roots and lost little boys. Uttering a contented sigh, licking faces and hands with the pure gratitude of a rescued stray, Harry settled down. So, what if he was covered in fleas and burrs, and smelled bad? Nobody cared.

John was hot to the touch next morning, and his cough was worse. Their apple juice was almost gone, so Scott added to it by dipping the bottle into a stream, sharing the slightly muddy, barely sweet drink with John and Harry.

After that, and a few more cracker sandwiches, they began trudging again. Sometimes planes and helicopters flew low overhead, but Scott pulled his brother and dog into hiding every time, convinced that he was in trouble for running away. Afraid to be caught.

He promised John and Harry that everything was alright; that soon they'd be in Houston, with Dad. Just beyond that copse of trees… across the road… around another bend in the stream… Setting one small goal after another, he kept them moving.

A third cold night, this one without food, was spent in a narrow ditch. Scott couldn't sleep, again; too hungry, miserable and worried to drop off. He got up to pee, but Harry wouldn't let him go very far, seizing the boy's jacket sleeve in his teeth and pulling him gently back to his feverish little brother.

Then, because no one but a dog was watching, Scott sat down and began to cry. Wiping at his grubby face with both hands, he whispered,

"I'm sorry. I'll be good forever. I'll _always_ listen. Please let somebody find us. Please send Granddad. John's getting _scared._"

It was a very long, very cold night, made sharper by hunger and fear. But a base security patrol found them in the morning, thanks to Harry. The dog heard something, a voice or truck engine, maybe, and began barking.

He rushed out of the ditch toward the sounds and then back again, making all the noise he could. Scott would have followed, but John was too sick to walk and Scott wouldn't leave him. Not if Santa Clause himself had offered a ride to the North Pole, and all the toy planes he wanted. Instead, he rubbed his brother's matted hair, and he waited.

Four times the wild barking faded; drawing close again as grey, chilly dawn warmed herself at the sun's fire. The last time, Scott heard tires, car doors slamming, police radios and loud voices. Someone looked over the side of the ditch just as Harry plunged and skidded down the clay embankment. An S.P.

"Got 'em," the cammo-uniformed officer called into his radio. "Both boys, apparently safe. Call off the search. Repeat, the kids have been found."

Radios hissed and orders crackled back and forth. The Security Patrol officer and his partner lowered themselves into the ditch after Scott and John, who'd rallied enough to almost-smile.

"That's quite a dog you've got there," the younger officer commented, as he was carrying Scott out of the trench. "Muttly led us right to you, Kiddo."

"His name's Harry," Scott said quietly, still worried that maybe he was going to get spanked. After all, there were a whole lot of police cars coming.

"Well, Harry the dirty dog should have kept you two at home," the S.P. replied, setting Scott down in the back of his patrol truck. His partner was already busy there, tending to John.

"He wasn't our dog then, but he is now," Scott explained. "See… we have an opening, because Rusty had to go to sleep."

Mom ran up a few minutes later, trailing Grandma and Granddad. Not their father, though. Busy preparing for the next Moon shot, he hadn't even been told that the boys were missing.

Not mad at all, Mom covered all three of them with kisses (even the dog), crying harder than Scott had, and twice as sorry.

Back in the real world, Scott Tracy folded his arms across his chest, staring at a pale, maybe dying brother. Tube down his throat… IVs in both arms… hair raggedly chopped… and being put to sleep. Drugged into a coma.

Scott pushed past Hackenbacker, moving forward to lean down at John's side. The engineer tried to draw him away, but Virgil stepped in, big and solid as a brick wall. Very quickly, while Dad was still on the phone with Dr. Crouse, Scott whispered,

"John, it's me. Listen, little brother, you're hallucinating. Whatever you think's going on, _isn't._ You're at the infirmary, but you've got to wake up. I mean it."

No good. John didn't hear him, or couldn't reply. Shuddering violently, he coughed more blood into his air tube.

"Okay, listen: I'm here. I'm not going to leave, John. It's gonna be okay, because I won't let anything happen to you."

Yeah… and any time now, they'd reach Houston.

Said Hackenbacker, from behind Virgil,

"S- Scott, your, ah… your brother n- needs help. I have to be, ah… be allowed to r- reach him. Y- Yes, the procedure is risky, but, ah… but so is d- doing nothing. I h- healed your back injuries, r- right here in this room, and if you'll give me a chance, I'll d- do what I can to treat John. Now, p- please, let me through."

The hell of it was, Scott knew that Hackenbacker was telling the truth. John did need help, and there didn't seem to be a better answer. But… Mom was gone, Gordon missing, Granddad dead of a heart attack… and now _this?_ Now John?

Scott had bidden farewell to his squadron with less pain than he now nodded and stepped aside. Hoped like hell he was doing the right thing, too, because John was in no condition to defend himself. Virgil followed his older brother's lead, letting Hackenbacker past him, at last. Their father ended his discussion with Dr. Crouse, and rejoined them. Surprisingly, so did John.

Just as Hackenbacker was prepping the first thiopental shot, John blinked. He tried reaching for his air tube, making a noise that sounded like,

"_Owww…"_

Everyone dashed over at once.

"Yeah, I'll bet," Scott laughed, wobbly with relief. "What the hell, buddy? Got ahold of a bad fry, or something?"

_No…_

John couldn't shake his head or speak around the tube and bite block, nor could he really remember what had happened… except that he'd been far away, and dying. And that, somehow, he'd just learned to create a quantum supercomputer. All he had to do first was re-break a promise.


	10. 10: Change

Thanks Cathrl, ED, Zeilfanaat, Boleyn and Sam1. Your insights are much valued. Re-edited.

**10: Change**

Scott hunched over the controls of his Bird, perspiring freely, face lined with tension and fatigue. Outside, a capricious wind tore and plucked at the ungainly craft, threatening to whip her out of the sky and onto the ruptured mountainside below.

Smoke and lightning filled the air, dark clouds somber-swollen and glowing with reflected light. The volcano had erupted once already, flinging boulders and ash far across the charred land. It was expected to do so again, rumbling to itself continually as though working up the will to act. Pebbles and bits of pumice rained down upon the rocket plane, streaking her hull and view screens with heavy grey powder.

Fighting powerful updrafts on the one hand and dizzying gales on the other, Scott Tracy struggled to maintain an even rate of climb. With a hold full of injured passengers, he had all he could do just to stay in the air. Then an engine guttered out; number three again, dammit! Wrestling the stick and elevators, he'd forgotten to watch his fuel mixture.

The rocket plane yawed wildly to port, and then nose-dived, it's intakes clogged with choking, gritty ash. The airframe shuddered violently, raked by lightning and savage crosswinds. There was a noise… bellow, explosion and roar together… that launched half the mountainside into the air at him.

Scott had time for one sharply inhaled breath,

"Oh, my God…!"

And then a buzzer went off, migraine-loud around him. The overhead lights cut on, just as the main view screen went red.

_'Scenario ended,'_ it flashed at him, followed by, _'Catastrophic failure.'_

"Damn!" Scott snarled, clapping a hand to his face. Fourteen hours he'd been at this now, attempting to fly a stupid, ungovernable, piece-of-shit rocket plane through one psychotic rescue scenario after another. His success rate was an abysmal 23 percent.

Of course, the screen lit up again, and of course, it was Hackenbacker, looking tired, wan and peevish. Well, he wasn't the one on trial here, was he? That signal honor belonged to Scott Tracy.

"Brains," he snapped, before the engineer could start in on him again, "Do me a _big_ favor, and keep it to yourself. I need food and sleep, not a damn post-mortem."

But Hackenbacker ignored him.

"Y- You're still, ah… still overcompensating, Scott. Th- This is not, ah… not a b- brute force aircraft. A s- speedy one, yes. But not one m- meant to be, ah… be manhandled! You _must…"_

There was more; Scott could tell, because Brains' bloodless lips were still moving. The sound had cut off again, though. Leaning back in the pilot's seat, Scott watched in dull amazement as Hackenbacker's image shrank to postage stamp size and migrated to the top right corner of the screen.

_Huh…?_

Then another image filled the view screen; his pale-blond, deadpan brother, John.

"Well?" Scott sighed, bracing internally. John never sugar-coated anything; he didn't know how.

"Computers, Scott; maybe you've heard of them? They fly the aircraft with your supervision. Otherwise, you graduate to grease-spot status, and so does everyone else aboard."

Scott rubbed hard at his stubbled face. _God,_ he was exhausted.

"I can…"

_"No,"_ his brother cut in, "you _can't_. Scott, this design is fast as hell, but aerodynamically unstable without computer assistance… like a flying wing. It's a tail-heavy pig, and it's damn well going to kill you if you keep trying to fly by the seat of your pants."

Scott grunted feelingly. In one messy fashion after another, he'd been slaughtered some thirty times in the last four days. Less than Virgil, at least (John was keeping score).

"How 'bout we install a co-pilot's seat, and you ride shot gun, John? Honestly, I can handle level flight under nominal conditions; it's when the wind kicks up, or I have to shift this bitch to VTOL mode that she goes homicidal on me."

A slim smile flickered across his brother's face. Touched his eyes, even.

"Love to, Scott… but as you well know, my ass is grounded, and there aren't enough of us yet, to double up with. When…"

He stopped speaking abruptly, but Scott knew what his brother had been about to say.

_'When Gordon shows up, we can increase the crews.'_

None of them… not Scott, Virgil nor John… had ever given up believing that their young brother would be found alive. That the avalanche hadn't claimed _two_ victims.

"Yeah," Scott replied, just as though John had completed his sentence. "That'll take some of the load off, all right. In the meantime, I'll start employing my electronics, honest. Reset the scenario, leash your buddy and we'll try again."

On screen, John nodded.

(Scott was just about accustomed to the shorn hair, though it still looked odd…)

"Right," John said. "It'll take seven minutes or so to reset all the parameters. Take a stretch break, visit the head and get some coffee, Scott. I'll call when we're ready."

It was like a _'get out of jail free'_ card, being advised to leave the simulator. A chance to move around, splash water on his face, and… Coffee break, hell! He needed a damn caffeine IV.

Scott unstrapped, getting up rather slowly. Still a wonder, after all these weeks, to rise without having to grit his teeth against fiery, lancing pain. Another _'get out of jail free'_.

Of course… Scott crossed the cockpit in a few rapid strides and keyed open the hatch.

…Of course, with his back now at 93 percent or so, he could always return to the Air Force; rejoin his squadron. Maybe.

Outside the hatch, the illusion of an actual aircraft curled up and died like a bug-sprayed wasp. Positioned on pistons and hydraulic jacks, shaken by force fields and padded hammers, the 'rocket plane' was no more than a mechanized simulator pod in a giant, dimly lit lab.

Scott took his leave of the high-tech torture device with decidedly mixed feelings. His parting salute was text-book crisp, but executed with just one finger extended.

"See you in ten. Try not to kill me, next time."

…Though he probably should have addressed this last comment to Hackenbacker. At least _John_ was watching out for him.

Elsewhere, also in simulation, Virgil Tracy was struggling to clamber his way across the curving hulk of a downed sub. He wore a heavy, cumbersome deep-sea diving suit; almost a robot exoskeleton, really.

Visibility was poor, the current like an underwater jet stream and the submarine's hatch buried somewhere in sucking grey ooze. With his pincer-clawed gloves, Virgil was attempting to maneuver a bulky egress tube.

_If_ he could find the damn hatch…

_If_ it could then be cleared…

_If_ he was able to attach the tube…

…Fourteen trapped sailors might escape a black and awful grave. Except that things weren't going so well.

Picking up his magnetic-soled boots and setting them down again involved pressing in sequence two sets of inner-glove palm controls. Moving the helmet light was done by leaning his forehead onto a contact plate, then clumsily shifting his head around inside the helmet. There were a pair of internal tubes, one a kind of blowing straw, for adjusting the force of his suit's grip and movements, another merely for drinking, and he kept mixing them up.

Biting his lip, Virgil struggled through another forward step, the escape shaft stretched up behind him like some sort of intestinal kite, trying its damndest to yank him off the hull. If only he could see through all that swirling murk!

Hatch had to be there, somewhere…

All at once, the current died. The tank lights cut on and the suspended grit began to settle. Inside his helmet, Virgil's heads-up display chirped,

'_Time expired. Victims have asphyxiated. Scenario failed.'_

Within the heavy robot gloves, Virgil's fists clenched. Yeah, he knew that the victims, the trapped submariners, were just computer-generated simulations… that their frantic tapping and coded messages were part of the 'game'… but five or ten or eighteen months from now they might be real… and Virgil hadn't rescued them once. _Not one damn time._

Cables began hauling his suited form out of the water, leaving the useless egress tube to drift away, abandoned. Virgil Tracy, 17 years old, bone-weary and deeply frustrated, fought the urge to cry. Then came John's voice, unexpected as one of Scott's brain-dusting knuckle raps.

"Okay. Next time, better intel. We've got to pinpoint the exact location of that hatch and set you down on top of the damn thing. This is a rush scenario; you haven't got time to hunt."

Overhead lights shivered liquid-cold and ripple-y as he was drawn toward the surface. The cables vibrated, their businesslike hum communicated to Virgil through his claustrophobically cramped suit.

"Uh… other than running out of time, though, John… How, um… how'd I do?"

The answer was prompt.

"Fine. Your speed has improved, and you managed to stay on the hull. I'm the one screwing up by the numbers. _Got_ to find a way to boost those goddam scanners."

Virgil broke water, out and up into the still air and neon lights of the massive tank room. And, _man, _did he ever want out of that dive suit and diaper!

"It's okay, John. You'll figure it out. I'll keep working on my end, you'll sharpen up the data, and next time, we'll save us some victims. Honest."

He wasn't certain why he'd had the sudden impulse to reassure his older brother. John hadn't sounded any more bleak than usual. Just tired, he supposed… both of them.

Giant overhead cranes swung Virgil's dripping form over to solid ground… like an armored fish being landed in slow motion.

"Yeah," his brother replied, giving Virgil a weary salute from the room's observation booth. "Although… the solution may lie less in boosting what we have than in taking advantage of what someone else has already put into place. WorldGov's got a nice, vulnerable satellite network sitting up there; sweet, dumb and happy."

_Great._ Still sneaky. Scott had often joked that if John ever died, they mightn't find out for years, because he wouldn't let on. Just get a little stiffer, maybe.

Virgil was deposited on the tank-side gantry with a deep, booming clang. Swarms of tiny robots, glinting silver and polished black in the cold lighting, rushed from their places to attend him. To change the subject (and because he damn well refused to go in a diaper, even after 12 hours), Virgil said,

"We through for the day, John?"

"Guess so. Grandma said something about dinner… Oh, _shit_… an hour ago! She's going to yell at me."

Virgil snorted, breathing a deep lungful of chlorinated, chilly air as the robots un-helmed him.

John? In real trouble with Grandma? Uh-uh. Never happen.

If John cut school… _The administrators and teachers weren't doing their damn job!_

If he showed up late for dinner… _Who the hell distracted him?_

Naw… John would be all right. It was the rest of them who'd best beware flying saucepans and scathing tirades. But, just now, dinner could wait. Nothing mattered more to Virgil Tracy than shallow water swirling around a porcelain bowl.

_Later, the formal dining room-_

Jeff Tracy sat on one side of the great mahogany table, Grandma directly opposite him, with the boys ranged between them, facing the open French doors. TinTin, Hackenbacker and Kyrano sat across the way… sort of.

Truthfully, Kyrano was too uncomfortable to remain seated with the family. He kept excusing himself to go to the kitchen, the sideboard, the patio… anywhere at all.

Dinner that evening (late, but still remarkably good) consisted of roast beef, mashed potatoes, onion gravy and baked beans. There was even pie for dessert, apple; the consumption of each crumb watched over with condor-like intensity by Grandma. You didn't talk at a Tracy dinner. By God, you _ate_. Only later, when bellies were full and plates empty, when crumpled napkins rested in peace atop scraped-clean china, might talk commence and John return to the book on his lap.

Jeff's sudden throat clearing quieted the family's nascent buzz. Everyone looked over except for John (who settled lower over his book until Grandma tapped him under the table).

"Mother," Jeff began, trying on a faint smile. "The meal was excellent. Thank you. We're certainly pleased and honored to have you here… permanently… on the island."

He sounded more strained than pleased, though.

Grandma's response was a sharp little nod, her lips compressed to a line as thin as the edge of an axe blade.

"That said," Jeff went on, "and after wishing young TinTin well in her studies, it's time to discuss the day's findings."

Once the Kyranos had left the room, Jeff continued, turning first to his engineer, Dr. Hackenbacker.

"Brains, where do we stand on flight readiness? Bottom line ETA to a successful mission?"

Hackenbacker removed a pen from his shirt pocket, began nervously twisting the cap. Candlelight gleamed from his glasses as he suddenly straightened his posture.

"M- Mr. Tracy, there is, ah… is a certain amount of error associated with, ah… with the l- launch of any g- great enterprise. Delays are inevitable, Sir."

"Time frame, Brains." Jeff barked, leaning halfway out of his seat with both palms pressed flat to the table top.

Running a hand through his own mussed brown hair, Hackenbacker replied,

"A m- month, Mr. Tracy. Two at, ah… at the outside. P- Progress is being made, Sir, but with, ah… with such a small w- work force, there are limits to h- how quickly the c- craft can be produced, tested and, ah… and trained upon."

Jeff swallowed a comment, but looked very sour, indeed. _A month? Possibly two?_

"Very well. On to training, then." He faced his oldest son, next.

"Scott, I'd like an update on your progress with the vanguard craft."

Scott didn't fidget. He met his father's gaze, even if he wasn't able to meet the man's noose-tight deadline.

"I'm at 23.7 percent success, Father. We've, um… come up with some new design ideas and flown two successful simulations since rewiring the plane's avionics. It's coming together, Sir."

"Twenty-three percent?"

"Twenty-three point seven, Sir. Closer to twenty-four, actually," Scott corrected. "But we're improving with each flight."

He wasn't sure who the 'we' represented, exactly. He and Brains, maybe? Or John?

"I see," Jeff responded. Then, with altogether forced heartiness, "Keep at it, Son. Virgil?"

The young would-be rescuer jumped. A spot-lighted deer would have looked less stunned.

John, who'd been frowning distractedly at the table top, made a very slight motion. He cut in, saying,

"The computer system is inadequate. In order to successfully complete your simulated missions, Sir, we need better data, faster communications and some way to mask our movements. I'd also suggest arming the larger aircraft, in case of challenge from national militias. Some of them don't like unannounced border-crossings."

Jeff sat back, his fingers steepled before his face. A gust from the open patio doors set the candle flames to dancing, changing the shadows around his eyes and mouth.

"You have an idea, I take it, for this 'more adequate' computer system?"

John darted a swift, uncertain glance around. Everyone was looking at him. Oh, well… what the hell, huh? Watch the show. Invite your friends…

"Yeah. I mean… um… yes, Sir. I do. But it's going to take up a lot of space, the Earth-side portions, anyhow, and involve some… some major manipulation of existing government infrastructure."

"Ah. 'Hacking', in other words?"

John's gaze dropped, but he held steady, refusing to back down or clam up. This was far too important to leave alone. The computer… _his _computer… had to be built. She was well over three-quarters planned already, in his head and his notebooks. All he needed now was permission to start construction… or the guts to go it alone.

"Yes, Sir; _hacking_," John admitted, "but I won't get caught this time, and the computer I've got in mind, when built, will give us all the processing power we need to access and manipulate surveillance satellites, weather stations and world-wide temperature buoys. Even the International Moon Station and Sea Base data banks will become accessible."

Jeff scowled, clearly torn. The boy (in Jeff's eyes still shifty, weak and untrustworthy) was mostly recovered from his unexplained collapse at last week's welcoming party. Mostly… but not all. And you didn't see your own son lying wracked with convulsions on a treatment table, without changing your thinking a little. Not if you were any sort of real father.

Slowly, Jeff Tracy nodded. With that one motion, he changed far more than just his mind.

"Very well. Do what you have to, Son. It's pretty clear that we're not going to get off the ground without sneaking through a few windows, as it were. Just… keep me posted on your progress, _verbally._ Nothing written or emailed that might be subject to interception."

To his credit, John stifled the urge to comment sarcastically on the utter obviousness of _that_ safeguard. Don't shout it from the rooftops, Dad? You think?

Still, it was something to build on, and at some level, he appreciated the implied trust. Now, if he just didn't screw it all up…

17


	11. 11: Addition

Thanks, ED, Tikatu, Zeilfanaat, Boleyn, Cathrl and Sam1. Partly edited, and again once back from the hockey game...

**11: Addition**

Okay, so he was on this plane, right? Leaving SoCal about a million miles behind to spend Thanksgiving break with the _other_ side of his family… _Dad's_ side. Mom was totally embarrassing at the airport. She, like, kissed him and junk, called him 'baby' in front of the whole freakin' _world!_ Dude, she could've just dressed him in giant footie pajamas and stuck a bow in his hair to finish up. After that, even the take-off butterflies in his stomach were too humiliated to show!

If he ever managed to grow up, it'd be, like, no thanks to _her._ Okay, so she had only one kid. Did she have to wring him like a dish towel because of it? _Dang, _she drove him nuts!

Not that five days on ' Fantasy Island' were likely to ring his chimes, either; not with Huey, Dewey and Louie around to ignore/ can't stand him. _Anyways…_

He had 10,000 pounds of luggage. Maybe more. In fact, about the only thing his mom _hadn't_ packed was herself. Geez… _there_ was a full-body-shiver thought… opening up a suitcase and having Mom bounce out going,

_"Surprise, _Baby!"

Oh, man; someone just _pull…the…dang…trigger._

It was a long flight, kind of a big luxury jet, and Alan Tracy was the only passenger. He had a book and a pencil, with which he amused himself for a time by flipping blindly to new pages and finger-pointed words, looking for secret messages. Seven random stops, every time.

_Attacks… help… picnic… catalog… fiercely… readers… lurking. _

_Huh?_ What the heck was _that_ supposed to mean? Maybe backward?

"Lurking readers fiercely catalog picnic-help attacks," Alan mumbled aloud, puzzled by the book's oracular nonsense. So… he was supposed to watch out for sneaky smart guys at an outdoor barbecue?

His brother, 'Prince John, the emo wonder-boy', came to mind… but, no; John was more armored than dangerous… usually. He neither liked nor disliked Alan. Just kind of ignored him, like Scooter and Virgie.

Okay, so, again with the book, then.

"What's gonna happen at Dad's?"

_Horrible… destroyed… question…my brothers… something… about… that._

_Whoa._ And that's what he got for questioning Lemony Snicket: horrible, destructive brothers.

Alan gave up, tossed the stupid book aside and went back to his other time-waster; video games. He had a real nice PlayStation Nano that his mom had got him with Dad's-new secretary's-almost late birthday check. Top of the line. Played, like, _everything_ and even let you design and program your own RPGs and stuff. Neat, huh? Except that he'd already played for four hours, straight, and was getting pretty bored with his latest fantasy quest. Only so many ways you could rescue the princess, y'know? Maybe if there'd been some other players… but Alan did not excel at making friends.

He shut off the PS Nano and shoved it back in his shorts pocket. Just then the plane hit some turbulence, which livened things up a little. He could hear muted cursing from the cockpit, and someone had to come back and clean up his spilled food, giving Alan an excuse to talk. The stewardess was friendly, in that _'just doing my job with the boss's son'_ kind of way, but she wiped up the tacos too quick, and disappeared like water.

Alan was pretty much almost eleven; kind of scruffy on the outside with cool-looking spiked hair and skater-dude clothes, but inside a mess of worry, nerves and (just a little) hope. Like a Twinkie, if there were bugs in it that bit you right back.

Hey… plenty of guys would've killed to be him; to have a rich dad, live in California or an island, ride out of school early on a private jet. Plenty of guys.

See, half the time he was an only child; the micro-focus of his mother, who spoiled him frickin' _rotten._ (And he got cool stuff because of it, too. Everything he said he wanted.)

But, okay… the other half he'd until now spent on a series of really boring 'vacations' to Podunk, Wyoming. The other half of his life, he just didn't matter to anyone but Grandma and Granddad. Not even a fifth wheel, he got his older brothers' attention by acting like a total butt: attaching powerful magnets to John's computer, shutting off all the cold water, filling the sugar bowl with salt, soaking all their clean underwear and then tossing it out in the snow… stuff like that.

He learned to hide and to run fast, because Scott was, like, unforgiving; zero sense of humor, just 24/7 lectures and poundings. Virgil tried to get even, but he wasn't quite sneaky or quick enough, and got most of his half-butt schemes turned right back on him. (_Heh!_) John usually just cleaned up the mess in frozen silence, like a blond zombie. Except for that one time (a _total accident_, for real; Alan hadn't even meant to spook the stupid pregnant horse). Dude. He hadn't known John could get _mad_, much less magnesium-flare _scary._

So, what was going to happen this time? Did being in a new place mean starting over? If he, like, chilled… just sorta let them relax around him… would they start talking, and stuff? Forgive him for not being stupid, dumb, long-dead Gordon?

Yeah, right; and his butt was made of solid gold and diamond dust. Smarter to start planning, and to hit the ground running.

Alan had the sudden urge to throw up all those chicken-ranch tacos and cherry sodas, which another bout of severe turbulence didn't help any. He strapped himself into the soft leather seat, watching cloud droplets commit suicide on the window. _Dang…_ usually, he liked flying.

The pilot called back to apologize for all the bouncing, and Alan was like,

"Yeah, whatever, Dude."

…Played it off like he hadn't even noticed.

They arrived at the island three hours later, just before the storm broke.

_Earlier, another time-_

It was Jeff Tracy's firm belief that everything would have been different… better… if Lucinda hadn't died. If the boys hadn't whined their way onto that tense 'second honeymoon'… if he'd just been able to grab for Lucy instead of stabilizing Scott… he'd have saved her life and had a chance to mend things between them.

But regrets and 'what ifs' were the purview of drunks and dreamers. Jeff Tracy didn't mourn history, he changed it. Scientists could be bought, machines built. With money and willpower enough, he could reach into the past and save his wife… or so he assured himself.

Accordingly, some years before bringing his family to the island, Jeff engaged 'Doctor Hackenbacker', offering the man a permanent blank check and utter anonymity. He'd followed these gifts with a single, all important demand: _Build me a bridge to the past. A way to save Lucinda._

But as a wise man once said, be careful what you wish for.


	12. 12: Near Miss

_The back half of last chapter, so to speak. I had got sidetracked by a hockey game. Re-extra-edited._

**12: Near Miss**

_Early spring, 2058-_

At the appointed time, Jeff Tracy met with his chief engineer in the island's largest subterranean laboratory. Hackenbacker was nervous, insisting that his employer sign a detailed 'hold harmless' waiver before taking this dangerous, terribly difficult step.

Big as it was (and the place would easily have held the average suburban shopping mall) the concrete-walled lab crackled with energy; pulsed with it.

At the far end was a slowly twisting helix of light, large enough that a man might stand (or be dropped) within. Upward it widened, disappearing through the ceiling and into the misty future. Downward, it became narrower and better defined before plunging through the floor and into the recent past. Once it had featured a set of space-farmed crystal generators, but these had vanished along with the power source, sinking through floor and time together. At this point, it might have been impossible even to turn the thing off. Hackenbacker had no idea; he'd never tried.

Mighty electro-magnetic fields kept the light constrained to its swirling path, filling the chamber with dancing shadows and a bug-zapper hum. Tiny, glowing motes drifted away from the spinning helix like sparks from a heatless bonfire. Eerie, to say the least.

A hard plastic gantry had been erected beside the thing, fitted with an extensible walkway that would allow a man to step within. Jeff wanted to take that step… here, now… but even after he'd signed the damn paper his engineer held him back, still pleading.

"M- Mr. Tracy," Hackenbacker insisted, raising his voice to be heard over the time machine's tooth-rattling buzz.

"Sir… I d- don't think that you, ah… you realize quite how d- dangerous…"

"Brains," Jeff snapped, lifting hard brown eyes from a last-minute equipment check (he'd planned and dressed for a cold weather rescue… trained privately and thoroughly as an EMT). "…with or without your preferred level of comfort, I'm going through with my plans."

_…Because nothing else really mattered but saving Lucinda._

Hackenbacker tried again, one ink-spotted hand firmly clutched to his employer's padded sleeve.

"Sir, it, ah… it is not p- possible for this time machine to access events p- prior to its own, ah… own c- construction. If pressed, it m- may simply vanish from, ah… from this universe, entirely."

What Jeff couldn't grasp was that time wasn't merely a line, or even a cross-hatched plane. It was a limitless, 4-D matrix, with versions of himself extending in all directions; each a little odder, a little more 'off'.

Could his mind have allowed him to see it, Jeff would have viewed himself as one tiny speck in an infinitely clear, omni-directional hall of mirrors. But, all he saw, as usual, was what he wanted. There was simply no coming between Jeff Tracy and his goal. Perhaps he was, as his employer liked to put it, 'The Brains of this outfit', but Hackenbacker didn't sign the checks _or _make the final decisions. Mister Tracy did.

He released Jeff's sleeve, wondering what he was going to say to the man's stockholders when they asked why in hell he'd stood by and let their CEO destroy himself.

"G- Good luck, Sir," he mumbled, accepting a quick, firm handshake.

"I plan ahead, Brains. I don't _need_ luck."

"Of c- course not, Mr. T- Tracy."

Brains directed him up the gantry lift, silently willing the man good fortune, anyhow. At the very top, Jeff donned a harness and set of goggles, and then gave the engineer a confident, NASA-style, thumbs up.

Nodding, Hackenbacker hit the walkway extension switch and sent his wealthy employer gliding into a barely-tested time machine. For just an instant, from his perspective, the shifting helix seemed to freeze in place. (And ultimately to fail, leaving Jeff just standing there, past unplumbed.)

Aboard the walkway, Jeff saw the spiraling beam draw nearer; saw it grow searing, world-filling bright as it did so. His heart was racing, his throat dry, but somewhere at the end of that walk was Lucy, and Jeff would allow nothing to prevent him from reaching her, now. Not Hackenbacker, not time, not death itself.

Taking a deep breath, he paced through the coils of deadly, spacetime-warping light, and then he stepped off. At first he dropped under the normal acceleration of gravity, but soon that sensation vanished, to be replaced by a new, weirder other. A floor, or something very like it, seemed to materialize beneath him. The spiral faded, but did not quite disappear. Through it, he glimpsed, not the lab, but a swift rewinding of his own past.

Scenes, images and people flicked by, some of which he was pleased to recall. Board meetings and land buys… a few vacations to the ranch, even. But there were others. Through the glowing tornado he saw things he didn't care so much to relive. The wasp's-nest humming lessened, the glow dimming further as Brains' time machine came to the end of its reach. Jeff wouldn't budge, though; wouldn't step through. Not yet.

There were differences, now, as the machine flashed from his own past and into a nearby other. Eye and hair colors were subtly altered here, events slightly disordered, but Jeff hardly noticed. He'd come to the funeral.

In Kansas, under steel-wool skies, another version of Jeff Tracy stood with a knot of mourners beside an open grave. His boys (each in a small, beautifully tailored black suit) were at his side, Grant and Victoria Tracy just behind them. One of the boys, blond as his dead mother, attempted to pull away.

Jeff… _this_ Jeff… cringed inwardly as he saw his other self seize the boy's thin shoulder and yank him sharply back. Far off, in that distant other Kansas, his double slapped the struggling boy. Here, Jeff heard himself whispering the words that the far-off figure was angrily mouthing.

_"Be still, dammit! People are staring!"_

But he hadn't meant… he'd been just as grief-stricken as everyone else, only…

Further back, then; to a private hospital room in the pediatric intensive care ward, where a broken, red-haired toddler lay connected by tube and monitor to the machines that kept him alive. He saw himself at the baby's bedside with his widowed cousin, Kathleen.

_"They told me he was dying,"_ Jeff whispered, hands fisted, trembling, at his sides. _"What else was I supposed to do? I didn't_ _know."_

And further still, to the spuming, snow-filled air over a Geneva ski resort. A man's body fell past; his own. Reflexively, Jeff started to catch at the flailing form. Then, looking up, he spotted the cable car twisting from its guide wire over a flood of snow and rock and tumbling people. Weirdly, there was no sound except that in his head. That deeply guttural, never-forgotten roar.

A second figure dangled from the car's shattered picture window, her hands leaving bloody smears on plastic and metal as she slipped toward ruin. _Lucy._ Something was wrong, though. She was awkward, heavily weighted, but there wasn't time to decide why.

She lost her grip, began falling; her pitifully silent shriek filled in by memory. This time, Jeff acted. He broke the barrier of time and space and whirling light to seize the plummeting woman. Almost, they both plunged to their deaths, but Jeff Tracy was harnessed and tethered by more than just rope. Howling winds and Lucy's weight dragged at him, but he shifted his grip and stance, hauling them both upward with all the strength that fitness machines and long practice could give him. At last, gasping with pain and effort, he pulled her into the dim helix. It collapsed, leaving them, briefly, nowhere at all. But Lucy was safe beside him. Wasn't she?

No. Not Lucy. Or… not _quite_.

Reality altered itself around them, placing Jeff and his pregnant new wife beside a wrecked car, on a stretch of lonely Wyoming highway less than six months after the funeral. Off to one side was another vehicle, this one upside-down and smoldering.

Gennine began to sob; shaking with terror and shock as Jeff (already forgetting) set her aside to see what could be done for the others.

"Jeff…" she cried, cradling her swollen belly. "What _happened?"_


	13. 13: Division

Edits coming soon...

**13: Division**

_A recently altered past and location-_

His accident had been a nightmare of iced-over road, wavering headlights and blaring, discordant horns; filled with the choked screams of his young wife, crunching metal and a slashing shower of broken glass. Airbags had deployed, grinding Jeff and Gennine Tracy back into their seats like the smashing heel of a giant hand. His nose broke, but Jeff hardly noticed, for the car was spinning and his wife uttering terrified, high-pitched mouse whimpers.

She was afraid, which only served to make her husband angry. He refused to allow weakness in himself and hated it worse in others, no matter what the situation.

The car fish-tailed into a patch of grimy snow and roadside gravel, air bags deflating at last. A quick, neck-wrenching glance revealed them to be alive and in one piece, though Gennine was clutching hard at her belly. The seatbelt strap lay directly across it, cutting at their unborn son like the red slash bar on a 'no smoking' sign. _No baby._

Jeff punched the emergency strap-release button, freeing them both. Then he forced the driver's side door open with a brutal kick and surged out of the crumpled silver BMW. Gravel crunched and flew. His breath and blood steamed in the snowy air as he ran around the car's leaking, hissing front end to the passenger side.

Feebly, tearfully, Gennine was trying to open the door. Jeff yanked it wide, despite his own injuries pulling the sobbing woman loose. She cried even harder, then, clinging to her husband in a manner which irritated him further. He carried her to safety anyhow, leaning his head away and snapping,

"Gennine, that's enough! It's over; you're fine!"

He had other matters… people trapped in an upside-down truck… to attend to. She was out of immediate danger and ought, at least, to have quit _pawing _at him.

_"What happened…?"_ She'd whined, but he'd forgotten; the rescue attempt, his time traverse… all was gone but a lingering sense of failure, of wrongness. Somehow, Gennine wasn't what he'd wanted. Not really. But of course, he didn't know _why._

Choosing action over thought, he pulled a team of injured ranch hands out of their over-loaded truck, saving eight lives before Wyoming's far-scattered sheriff's deputies began turning up. It wasn't Jeff, but one of those red-shirted officers who noticed that Gennine had gone into premature labor. That she needed immediate med-evac, first to the big hospital in Cheyenne, then to an expensive private care facility in Salt Lake City.

They said that she needed bed rest, but as far as Jeff could tell, what she mostly did was bed _cry._ (And again, that grinding sense of distaste. Of, _'What the hell is wrong with this picture?'_ Lucinda would have toughed it out. Nearly losing a baby wouldn't have reduced _her_ to sobbing jelly.)

He divided his time between Salt Lake… attending to Gennine… and the ranch, visiting his parents and the boys. Possibly, he ought to have told them about each other. Should have advised his family that he'd gotten himself remarried in Europe, and Gennine that she was about to inherit three young stepsons. Certainly, their first full-scale meeting would have gone better with a little advance notice… but, Jeff hated explaining himself without a PowerPoint agenda.

His parents had recently relocated, upping tent stakes to move the boys from Kansas to the family ranch in Wyoming (mostly due to John's new taste for late-night roaming; Mother felt that the numbed boy might be less inclined to wander if Lucy's grave were further away. Or something.)

He didn't tell them about Gennine and the baby. Thinking about the situation made him uncomfortable. So, he avoided it; inventing business in Salt Lake City, instead. If nothing else, Utah's economy prospered immensely.

The Tracy spread… Split Rock Ranch… was enormous; largest in Big Horn County. It had come to them through his mother, Victoria, and it usually ran beef cattle and horses. Brucellosis and Mad Cow Disease had come close to shutting it down a time or two, but Grant's savvy management had gotten them through even the leanest years. It was named for a single, stand-out feature; a tall spire of dark rock split cleanly down the middle, yet still upright. Local geologists claimed that Split Rock was a magma plug, the hardened core of lava that had closed the throat of a long-vanished volcano.

The Arapaho and Cheyenne tribes thereabouts had their own theories, though. They said (as related by Grandma) that once, the entire region had been covered in dark water, filled with great serpents and terrible beasts that devoured men. And… for certain… any decently long ride across the bleak landscape turned up sharp teeth and fragments of ancient bone. So many, in fact, that they were a scarcely mentioned commonplace; literally, everywhere.

At any rate, the tribes of men were driven almost to extinction by these creatures, hunted and slaughtered by the score. Against the terror of the waters came fire from heaven: Thunderbird. A fierce battle arose. It charred the land, spanning many ages of man, leaving the ocean monsters dead, the waters gone and (when Thunderbird lit upon it to rest) a mighty rock cloven in two halves.

Grandma Tracy may not have believed the tale, but she certainly enjoyed telling it, often casting the boys as bold warriors who'd helped Thunderbird to escape from the ocean monsters' black net. Harmless nonsense, Jeff thought, forgetting how much he'd loved the story, himself. How he'd thrilled at imagining himself swimming down, down through icy water with a flint knife clenched between his teeth; hearing how he'd sawed at bonds of dank weed and slimy coils to free a trapped Spirit of the air.

…But, everything was simple in myths and children's stories.

In real life, Gennine was frightened and needy, the baby premature, and his first family terribly hurt by the suddenly revealed existence of his second one. He couldn't quite explain why he'd chosen to marry again so soon after Lucy's death. Not even to himself, much less the grieving boys.

Jeff's few experiments in uniting the two groups were doomed to failure, though the marriage struggled on through Alan's eighth year. John, especially, was a pain in the ass, refusing to speak to, or even look at, his stepmother... and his attitude strongly influenced Scott and Virgil's. After all, they were brothers and close friends.

Puzzled, hurt and defeated, Gennine eventually stopped trying to win the boys over. Not even Grandma Tracy could work _that _magic. Instead, until many years later, they were divided.


	14. 14: Outcome

Further edited. 

Some tweaking and adjustments.

**14: Outcome**

_Tracy Island, real time simulation-_

The scenario had placed him in the midst of a deadly crown fire, in Yosemite's National Forest. Uncomfortably close, the trees burned like torches, exploding violently as their sap began to boil from the fearsome heat. Ash and bits of charred wood filled the air, borne on a swift, reeking wind.

The noise of crashing timber and ravenous flame drowned out anything his comm might have produced, not that outside help was really an option; the others were busy elsewhere. The world was orange and black and hellish-hot, and he had half a mile to go to reach that memorized river bank.

Alone and unburdened, within the expandable protective field of a life support suit, he might have made it… but John had encountered victims. Two of them. One, the smoke jumper, was desperately injured. The other was a female hiker, young and afraid. She, at least, was mobile. She had a large backpack, too, which John swiftly emptied and took a knife to, converting the heavy nylon pack into a sort of sling, as Scott had once shown him. Slash two holes for legs in the bottom, widen the pack's top, slip it onto the injured man like a pair of large shorts, then draw his own arms through the straps and… _lift_.

Or, stagger, rather. Scott might have managed the feat. Virgil certainly could have. John had trouble remaining upright with the crushing dead weight of a burned man on his back. He refused to stop, though, or to drop the injured fire-fighter. Nor could the frightened girl leave him to race on ahead. Instead, she tried to help, choosing a likely path through blowing smoke, crumbling ash and glowing pine straw.

Quarter of a mile they'd stumbled along, avoiding burning logs and sudden pit falls. Then a fiery gust brought swarms of orange sparks to the top of a nearby fir. Already tinder-dry, the big old tree erupted. Blazing cones and long branches crashed to the forest floor around John, the girl and the smoke jumper. One of the branches, long as John was tall, fell straight at them.

…And, abruptly, the simulation ended. Burning forest was replaced by empty walls. The floor slowly de-texturized, and mighty fans ceased churning up smoke and hot air. The 'victims' stood revealed as computer operated machines; wheeled robots he'd helped program… one of which was breaking his damn back.

John released the one, gently lowered the other, turning to face the nearby window behind which Hackenbacker stood watching him.

"What happened?" he asked his bespectacled friend. Quietly, though. John wasn't approved to attempt such scenarios; not after what had happened to him on the pool deck. But Ike was willing, on the sly, to let him have a go… so long as he was careful.

A door opened in one wall. John removed his grimed survival suit, and then stalked on through, up a flight of stairs and into the small control room.

"What happened?" he repeated, reaching into the refrigerator for an orange soda, thinking that, _damn,_ if simulations were this tiring, what would the real thing be like? The cold air felt good, though.

"Why did you end the scenario?"

Hackenbacker frowned, rising from his computer console.

"Y- You were, ah… were entirely too wrapped up in th- that simulation, John," the engineer told him. "Your h- heart and, ah… and breath rate indicated dangerous levels of s- stress."

There was more; something in what Brains _wasn't_ saying that screamed right past all of that 'too much stress' bullshit.

"I screwed up again," he guessed, after draining half the soda.

Hackenbacker hesitated. He was an honest man, though.

"John," he said, shaking his head, "Th- there is no, ah… no programmed way t- to save _both_ victims. You should have d- dug the injured man into the, ah… the soil and left him with water and an air m- mask, then taken the g- girl to, ah… to safety at the rendezvous site. It's a classic t- triage dilemma, John; one that you've, ah… you've failed every t- time I've presented it."

Great. Maybe there was an excuse for multiple failures, but John couldn't think of one… besides sheer, persistent stupidity, that is.

So he muttered, pushing sweat-dampened blond hair off his own smudged forehead,

"We might have made it, Ike. The river was a legitimate goal. It was reachable, with both victims."

Dammit, they _might_ have… if he'd just been allowed to finish. But Hackenbacker wasn't buying.

"N- Not a risk I, ah… I care to take, John."

He'd ventured far too much, already, allowing the young man's father to make use of an untested time machine in a failed attempt to change his own past. Yet, something _had_ happened that night. Only, Brains couldn't explain what, or how.

An instant after stepping off of the gantry platform and into the light coil, Jeff Tracy seemed to flicker like wind-blown flame. Then, he'd rematerialized on the gantry, just as though no time traversal had even been attempted. There had been scores of instruments and sensors fixed on the man, both lab-based and in his survival gear. None of them had registered a damn thing. For all that Brains knew, the machine was an abject failure.

And yet, naggingly… if something _had _changed… if Mr. Tracy _had_ succeeded in altering the past… how would they know?

Unaware of his friend's turmoil, John changed the subject. Good a time as any, he supposed.

"Hey, uh… you know that computer I was designing?"

As Hackenbacker nodded, John set down the empty soda and pulled a flash drive from his jeans pocket.

"I've got the specs for you."

Ike had offered to beta test the design (or been assigned to; didn't much matter which).

The engineer accepted his flash drive, and then turned to slot it into the nearest regular computer. (Slow, little storage capacity, poor security. John had cracked it several times already, just for something to do.) He had to get past all the traps and safeguards that John Tracy reflexively placed on his personal data, and which would have cost anyone else their entire damn hard drive and all linked devices.

The design came up after a few moments, and John couldn't help… well, maybe he was proud of it, or something. He shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to start lowering the room's entropy number by cleaning up. Bad habit, he'd been told.

Hackenbacker stared at the screen for a time, scrolling through many levels of complicated circuit diagrams; then deeper still, to regard the source code. Slowly, he shook his head. Looking up, the engineer said,

"I'll b- be honest, John. Th- there's simply no, ah… no way that this m- mechanism can function as designed. You have t- traces… entire laser arrays and sodium t- tanks that, ah… that seem to occupy the s- same space. Wh- where, for instance, is this microwave sensor aimed? It, ah… it appears t- to be pointing _into_ itself!"

_Parallel processing,_ John thought. _Much of her will exist in nearby meta-space._

Almost, he said so aloud, but no… what the hell difference did it make? Once again, Ike wasn't going to listen.

"J- John, you're very, ah… very bright, but you've p- picked up a number of sloppy programming h- habits from, ah… from your hacking friends. Go back to s- school, learn how to, ah… to write a proper program (with more c- comments and less, ah… less arcana, for instance). In the m- meantime, we'll move forward as planned, with, ah… with Braman. Keep t- trying, though. You're definitely m- making progress."

_Yeah. Whatever._

Damned with faint praise. Hackenbacker nodded and smiled, but John was thinking too deeply to notice. Press the point, or shut the hell up?

Door number two, he decided; they couldn't forbid what they didn't find out about. But, whatever it took or he had to do to hide it, the computer was getting built. _His_ way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

So, when he got to the island it was raining; big, heavy drops like liquid bullets, or something. It was windy, too, with the palm trees swaying back and forth and tossing their fronds like stringy green mops in angry water.

The plane couldn't take off again, yet, and no one wanted a ride up Waterfall Mountain in that dinky little golf cart. So Alan, Grandma, this old guy, the plane's crew and a _really_ hot chick waited out the storm in a cliff hangar (Like a cave, with a little airport inside. For real.)

The crew made nice with their boss-folks, then went off somewhere to get coffee. Grandma did the huggy-kissy thing, which, y'know… wasn't all _that_ bad. She didn't buy him tons of junk, like mom, or send big checks, like dad, but she and Granddad did stuff, y'know, _with _him. Nothing major. Sometimes just watched a movie on the couch with popcorn and Kool-Aid… and she _never_ called him 'sweetie-pie'.

He gave Grandma a little extra long hug, because anyone who comes out to fetch you in the rain _really_ likes you… but one eye and most of his mind was on that girl. Tinty or something.

She had really long hair, black as anything, and these big eyes, just as dark. She looked at him from behind the old guy's back and kind of smiled.

Yeah, _buddy!_ This might turn out to be an interesting visit, after all.


	15. 15: Device Acquired

Thanks Tikatu, Zeilfanaat, Boleyn and Sam1, for the reviews. Freshly re-edited.

**15: Device Acquired**

_Tracy Island, Scott's quarters-_

Dinner was over and belts loosened, mountains of fine food having been washed down with 100-year-old cognac in Baccarat crystal (though Scott would have done just as well with a cold beer. Maybe better.). Now he was back in his rooms, switching his attention idly back and forth between the rising Moon and local television news coverage.

Physically, Scott Tracy was comfortable enough in blue sweat pants and a beat-up old Wolf Pack tee shirt, doing some cautious stretching. Emotionally, though, he was rather less composed. He'd deliberately left the lights off; silver moon-gleam and bluish TV-flicker provided illumination enough, and he'd anyhow already memorized the room's layout. No sense wasting power.

There was a question knocking around inside him. A tough one. Should he stay, or not? With his back miraculously healed, a return to the Air Force… to his squadron, his fighter and mission… was certainly possible. But, was it _right_?

He'd thought about this a great deal recently, especially while being patched up by Hackenbacker. Lying face down on a surgical table, partly sedated, Scott had had several hours of deep think-time. Not that he'd come up with much besides a lot of old patrol and recreation memories; wistful thoughts of the friends who'd remained behind to fight on without him.

He'd had a long row of probe wires inserted into his numbed spine (the area _still _itched). Tiny electrical impulses had teased out the health and location of each nerve, collecting data for the surgical nanobots that followed.

Scott had been immobilized throughout the long procedure, unable to shift position. He'd seen ice-bright lights, smelled iodine and bleach, heard the whirring and beeping sounds of a hundred delicate machines. The flash/hum and burning smell of lasers had etched his drugged thoughts.

While a horde of nanobots guided the actions of his body's osteoblasts, encouraging them to rebuild the damaged vertebrae, Scott had dreamt of Kunsan. Of a couple of girls, too… but no one permanent or really important (though he certainly wished otherwise). But that had been weeks ago.

Now, on the floor of his TV room, Scott leaned far over his own right leg, seizing with both hands the toes of his extended foot, while the other leg lay flexed beside him. He held position for a long ten-count, feeling his back muscles slowly unclench. There was some pain, still, but not too much. Not like before, when force of will and academy marching cadences were all that had gotten him through the day.

Hell of a thing, ejecting. You had to, to save your own life, but you did it knowing full well that blasting through a jet canopy at mach 2, with a rocket strapped to your sorry ass, was going to do serious, possibly irreparable damage. In Scott Tracy's case, compressing his spine like an accordion bag. Then, of course, he'd hit the water (second time; first time punching out, he'd managed to locate the tallest, most homicidal tree in Kazakhstan).

_Stay? Or go?_

Scott switched legs with a tired grunt, this time bending the right, and leaning low over his extended left. Meanwhile, a divided square of silver window light inched its way across the patterned carpet.

He was beginning to enjoy his simulated rescue flights in the Vanguard craft.

_(What to call the thing? Rescue-1 sounded… sterile. Disconnected. There had to be something better, more personal.)_

Yeah, she was hell-on-wings to handle, testy and unforgiving, but he was starting to get a feel for the girl. And, the more he flew her in simulation, the more Scott wondered what she'd feel like, for real; stick in his hands, throttling up to shred the clouds, hearing her shriek like a stooping warbird, only… not scoring 'kills', but performing rescues. Saving lives.

Scott's mind circled this notion as warily as a tired hound exploring a brand-new bed; sniffing and growling at its strangeness.

_Could he do this?_

The recently formed World Government still required defense from terrorist threats like Red Path and the shadowy CTA. The fight was still out there, round the clock, every day.

_Ought he to go back?_

Here on the island, Virgil and John, Grandma, Dad and even Alan were gathered. His family… what remained of it, anyway.

Scott shambled to his feet, and then switched to his new treadmill for a gingerly-slow jog. The facts: Mom was dead, had been for over 13 years. The questions: Could an organization like International Rescue have saved her life? Did he owe it to her memory to stick around and find out?

_Damn,_ but he wished he had some way to ask her!

Dad was determined. John claimed that he had no _choice _but to stay, having made some sort of good-behavior promise. Virgil seemed glad just to have a change of scenery, while Grandma would take root and flower no matter where the winds blew her, like a particularly stubborn, vigorous shrub. Nearly everyone he loved was here… old friends and everything he'd committed his life to, _there._ So, which way did duty lie?

About a mile and a quarter into his jog, local news coverage was broken up by WNN. A major flood had struck Siam, and images of the disaster were being beamed around the world; families trapped on shrinking patches of rooftop, wreckage-tangled bodies floating between drowned buildings, a child clinging to a swaying branch over turbulent brown water.

Scott Tracy's blue eyes narrowed. He found himself visualizing how he'd fly in, where he'd land (the lee side of that jutting outcrop, maybe), just how he'd set up mobile control, and what he'd tell the Siamese authorities. He pictured Virgil's crew lowering rescue baskets from the bottom of the big green utility bird… and John behind them; watching, trouble-shooting, giving advice. The three of them, saving endangered lives just the way Dad had hoped they would.

There are snap decisions, and there are decisions born of deep, heart-searching thought. This one was a little of both, made in moon-lit darkness to the whispering rumor of televised sorrow.

Scott straightened, stopped jogging, nearly fell off the back of his treadmill and had to grab for the rails. Not very heroic, but in days to come he'd have ample time to rectify that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_As nearly simultaneously as any two events can be said to occur-_

John Tracy, unsatisfied, had returned to the simulation lab for a second go at that forest fire. This time, he meant to finish the scenario, _without_ Hackenbacker's interference. Ike was a great guy, but overprotective, just like Ken Flowers and pretty nearly everyone else… But John meant to prove them all wrong. He _didn't_ need to be wrapped in lamb's wool, and he _could_ handle a dangerous scenario, given the chance.

Accordingly, he'd eased his way into the control room that night, employing his best infiltration skills; a slim blond phantom bent on self-education rather than mischief. So, quietly to the door, after disabling the area's locks and cameras, again, and then clear on through to Brains' vapidly welcoming computer. _(Not nice. It wasn't Toshiba's fault that Ike's new security measures blew, or that John had installed a particularly stealthy keylogger. But, still, you'd think…)_

Using an internet tablet, John called up the simulator program, accessed the Yosemite Crown Fire and altered a few parameters to suit himself. First, he reset the insertion clock to place himself on-site a full hour earlier, when the situation was still remotely manageable. He changed the season, too, so that the wood around him was greener, and the forest floor not quite so kindling-intensive.

So much for the externals. After a trip to the refrigerator for a ginger-ale (stocked for him by Ike, who was an addicted coffee drinker), John settled back to adjust a few of his own stats. With a string of rapid keystrokes, he set his survival suit's protective field strength 25 percent higher. Ought to be able to at least defend a victim, that way. He programmed in a second suit, as well, meaning to give it to Victim 2, the female hiker. Then, after improving the field-medic kit, John saw to boosting his own power. He input two… better make it _three_… months of on-the-sly weight training to increase his simulated lifting abilities. (The real thing had already begun, late at night, in the mansion's gym. He hadn't told Scott or Virgil, though. They might laugh.)

_Yeah. Good to go._

Pushing back from Ike's accommodating little computer, John resisted the urge to check everyone else's email. Instead, he got to his feet, finished the ginger-ale, suited up and took himself to the simulation chamber.

It looked sterile and cold before the scenario began running; like a vast white operating theater with a rubberized floor and walls composed of photonic crystal image generators, silvery vents and sound panels. Neutral, silent and waiting, just like John, himself.

Quixotically, before voice-triggering the simulation, he walked to mid-chamber, and bowed. _Round two._

"Run Yosemite Crown Fire," he said aloud, feeling the universe change around him almost before the words were out.

Walls vanished, replaced by massive trees and distant, smoldering hills. The floor roughened, adjusted from below to imitate a series of hollows and root-hummocks. Pine straw and fallen leaves lay thick about him, stirred by a sudden, fiery wind.

Overhead, dark clouds sagged low, their rumpled bellies glowing with reflected flame. The stench… acrid and 'meaty'… spoke of things caught and other things fighting to escape. Distantly came the roar and snap of unleashed flame; closer to, the coughing, mumbling cries of an injured man.

John oriented himself, hit his wrist comm, and began to run. Newly athletic, he crossed in a scant two minutes what had previously required nearly seven. And there was the wounded smoke jumper; just as before, attempting to pull himself away from the fire's advance. For some reason, this time, John spoke to the man, saying,

"Sir, it's all right. You've been found,"

…as he knelt at his side. _Messy._ In places the man's flesh was ground-beef-red-and-black, with bits of ash and leaf clinging. Right leg raggedly broken below the knee… Mismatched pupils… He'd had a stupendously bad drop, obviously, but remained conscious enough to sense his rescuer's presence. A trembling, blackened hand reached forth, which John briefly touched.

Then, out with the med-kit… and a hefty dose of topical pain-killer. _This_ time, he didn't fumble the application.

The man… the name tape on his turnout coat read, 'Sampson, Ben'… relaxed enough that John could hoist and shoulder him.

And, yeah, it was easier now. Definitely, exercise paid off.

"Okay, Ben," he said, though (probably) the guy was too well-drugged to hear him, "time to get the hell out of Dodge."

Pushing through tangled underbrush, listening hard to the whooshing roar of sucked-in air, John was very careful of his footing. Last time, just about… _there…_ he'd turned his ankle on a long, ropy tree root, nearly dropping the injured fireman. This time, nothing of the sort took place. He was wary, now, and fore-armed.

Needed to be, too. Smoke in long streamers began to curl and grow denser around him. The fire was advancing fast, strengthening as it came.

_Shit._ Somehow, some random-number generated twist had sped its progress. He should have had more time…

_Whatever. Stay focused._

John cut between a pair of young sequoias, heading for the river, the salvation of running water. And there, just like before, was the girl; wide-eyed and limping.

John braced himself, knowing that she'd lurch desperately forward, crying out with relief at the site of help. Only… this time, she didn't. Instead, the hiker's outline shifted and skipped, like a badly-edited video clip or glitching software app.

_What the hell…?_

Lines of source code glittered against her face and form, peeking through strands of long red hair and pleading eyes, from her shirt buttons and belt buckle. Weird.

Around her, the simulation wavered into a sort of dark moiré pattern, as though the program itself was under attack.

John stepped backward. As if to defend the fallen man, his grip tightened on Ben. But…

_'The persona-program: Injured Fire Fighter 1 is not imperiled. There is significant randomness focusing upon the nexus of John Tracy.'_

Uh-huh. _Right._ The situation had just gone from level one (_oh, crap_) to level two (_oh, shit_), with a level three (_Holy Mary, Mother of God_) possibly right around the corner.

_'John Tracy,'_ she (or it) stretched out a flickering hand.

_'…you are Creator, First User and Companion to Five. John Tracy, you must follow.'_

A sort of window had opened in the forest fire scenario, as though somewhere, someone had clicked on a new application. Behind it…


	16. 16: InterfaceWithPizza

Some edits accomplished. Thanks muchly for the reviews, Cath and Boleyn.

**16: Interface-With-Pizza**

_The simulator lab-_

Almost as though a gateway had opened, there… framed all around with raging fire… was a view of his Princeton dorm room at Holder Hall. Finely detailed, although (when he moved his head) the angles were slow to adjust. Not exactly streaming video, obviously.

Out here the blaze was closing in, the simulator close to declaring catastrophic failure. But all at once, everything froze. Flames were caught in twisting mid-leap, burning branches suspended in the air with swirls of smoke like 3D pencil smudges, heat like a clutching hand. _Weird._

At least the fireman seemed to be holding up all right, though he might simply have fallen unconscious. Before John could decide, the glittering girlform spoke again, indicating her window to his dorm room.

_'John Tracy,'_ she repeated, _'must follow.' _

Definitely weird. The female hiker persona wasn't supposed to display this much autonomy. Clearly, there was unexplained randomness at work here, most of it centered on _her._

"Tell me who you are and why I should trust you," he said, stubbornly refusing to budge. Here, there was simulated fire and a training program that would shut itself off at his merest word. There… who could say? The gateway to Dev/null/?

_'This is a local manifestation of the quantum entity created by John Tracy and filenamed by him: Five._ _This entity seeks interface with its creator but cannot determine correct protocol.'_

Okay…maybe. She sounded sincere, though it might be just the female hiker persona showing through. Programmed people displayed the emotions they were written to possess, and applied them as their internal truth tables dictated. Real people… and this surprising variant… were less predictable.

Call it a cautious 'what-if'.

"So, I created you, and now you want to talk. Why not here?"

(…Where the worst he had to fear was another deep bruise to his ego.)

_'Present locus unsecured, John Tracy. There exists the probability that our data will be intercepted and copied, calculated at 41.3737373737373737….' _

"Eavesdroppers. Got it," he interrupted, ending a long torrent of repeating digits.

John looked at her, interested despite his own better sense. He couldn't help responding to her beauty, half-glimpsed as it was through the hiker program's humanoid exterior. Very much, he wanted to learn more. One final question, though:

"I backed everything up on flashdrive before leaving Princeton, then wiped all the hard drives. There was nothing left behind that you could… whatever it is… _emerge_ from. Initiate traceroute. Where are you, really?"

She flickered, suddenly. John was quite possibly the worst judge of emotion in all creation, but he guessed somehow that he'd confused her. She replied,

_'This manifestation of Five originates in the satellite platform of an expired near-John Tracy. This quantum entity was unable to manifest there before the near-John Tracy was destroyed.'_

Great. Advance three spaces, discover an extra-dimensional analog, then learn that the poor bastard's already dead. Stupid game, lousy rules.

"Okay," he decided aloud, gently releasing the injured firefighter program. "I'll bite. Lead the way, Beautiful."

Five's outline firmed, and she briefly out-glowed all that weirdly static flame. Possibly, he was being stupid again, but you rejected wonder and risk at peril of boredom; and worse yet, ignorance. Long story short, he followed her through the gateway.

Now the view was reversed. Through a grey-framed, tool-barred window John glimpsed the still shot of a burning forest. Here, though, all was quiet and dim. The dorm windows had their shades drawn, but John had a feeling that it was snowing outside. Looking around, he saw everything in place, just the way he remembered. His bed, posters, fish tank, desk and laptop… a little unfocused, but there.

Except… Of course, there was no reason that an analog of Autumn Drew should be present. No reason, at all. Turning to face the self-professed 'quantum entity', John said,

"Right. I'm here. Now what?"

_'This interface is out of correct temporal sequence, John Tracy, and will not be retained in memory.'_

So… why bring him out here, then? What was the point in even talking?

The girlform stepped forward, divesting herself of the hiker program she'd corrupted. Underneath lay a glimmering construct of code lines and qubits, still feminine in basic shape.

There were several bugs in her source code, he noticed; some repetitions, erasures and hooks that he couldn't ignore. Unthinkingly, John put a hand forth, reaching inside the gleaming whorl of silvery lavender, which brightened and slowed around his hand.

Back at Princeton, he and his friends had discovered a sort of internet 'wild site', coded and planned by no-one. Programming there had been a matter of thinking, no keyboard or stylus required. Here, John's ability level was the same. As the data streamed by, he patched it, one re-envisioned variable at a time.

In this way John repaired the quantum entity, his creation.

Their surroundings gained real-time solidity as John de-bugged Five's tattered source code. Soon he could hear the cat's-paw swish of snow against glass panes, the fish tank's quiet murmur and people calling to one another outside. The posters resolved themselves with unnatural clarity, allowing John to see their separate pixels, while his entry window shrank, rising to hover near the ceiling. Not that he paid much attention; by this point, Five's glow had become soft and continuous, with no more staticky flickers.

John stepped away. Done.

Here, then, was the result of the specs Ike had sneered at. Here was what had risen, dripping photons, from a space-borne sodium tank and laser array. Here was Five.

…And he wasn't even going to remember her.

It took some doing, but John forced his mind back to business and away from the sensations evoked by her newly solidified touch.

"So, the dead guy… this near-John of yours; what happened to him? How did he die?"

_'Impact with debris destroyed hull integrity of orbital space platform Thunderbird 5, resulting in termination through explosive decompression of the near-John Tracy.'_

Explosive decompression. Hell of a way to go… But, did this mean that he _would_ be accepted to the Astronaut Corps? And what, exactly, was 'Thunderbird 5'? NASA didn't have anything… _Damn it!_

"Okay, if you want me thinking clearly, you need to quit that. There's, um, a certain point past which I'm not too…"

Apparently, she didn't much _care_ what became of his mental acuity. He couldn't afford confusion, though, not if what she'd stated was true. With genuine regret, John pushed his creation and his hormones aside.

"Hang on. You say that you've manifested here, projected yourself from another universe, or something. Why? Besides getting patched up and making a… really… interesting pass at me?"

_Tremendously _interesting. Being that this was just another simulation, one Five herself had evidently programmed, she didn't have to _touch_ John to affect him. Thankfully, though, his question distracted her… a little.

_'This is the nexus, John Tracy, from which the quantum entity Five originates, casting reflections into many nearby worlds. If a physical housing is not constructed here, Five will cease to exist and John Tracy will lose his protection.' _

Unsettling thought, that.

"Protection? What kind? Have you been hauling me out of trouble, all this time?"

A longer-than-normal pause ensued, as though Five were considering her response. Almost, John got the impression that she could somehow rewind the exchange and try another statement. As though he was a character, or program; intelligent, but constrained. She said, finally,

_'John Tracy has been defended by Five, together with those marked by him. Random fluctuations have eliminated the presence of Five in this universe, however. The near other worlds are also affected, threatening the existence- in all locations- of Five.' _

Amazingly, despite all this weirdness, his idiot-traitor of a simulated body still wanted contact. Correction; wanted _her. _She resembled a beautiful blonde, now; brushing gently up against him, with the fingers of one softly sparking hand trailing along the back of his neck. His bed was very close, and so was she. But…

Protection… or stall-fed captivity?

"Listen, Five. I'm not going to make a _single_ goddam decision while you're screwing with my head like this. Back off, let me think, and then I'll decide what needs to be done."

She stepped away once more… or else the room altered slightly, increasing the distance between them. He'd once been able to effect such tricks, inside the malleable, cyber-linked wild site. But he'd exiled himself with a promise, John had, and all of that was ended...

In the slatted lamp light that crept through his dorm windows, the solidified Five was lovely indeed, and filled with almost religious serenity.

_'John Tracy is Creator and First User. John Tracy will preserve his companion from erasure.'_

Well…

His father had given permission. He had proof… here, _now_… that Ike was wrong, that his design would function. Scott had told him, "Break your promise". And, most importantly, she believed that he could save her.

Another thought occurred, just as she leaned in to touch her mouth to his. Reflexively, his arms went about her, and he drew the beautiful thing still closer.

"Wait… you said, 'out of temporal sequence'. That means you can, um… 'see' the future, doesn't it?"

She didn't say so, but he understood, perhaps from the way her energy field pulsed warm and soft against him, that her answer was: _yes._

"Okay, listen: I know this place at the Underground that makes a decent cheese pizza. Not ideal, but survivable. You want further interface… so, extend this scenario to include Jersey, we'll get something to eat, and you can explain what's going on. Deal?"

Five looked up at him, eyes opalescent with calm trust and gleaming code.

_'Proposal accepted, John Tracy. Running: Interface-with-Pizza.'_


	17. 17: Pi

**17: Pi**

_Princeton__ University__ (a simulation)-_

She'd done a remarkable job of recreating his old haunts. Far more than just the dorms; all of Rockefeller Campus was there on a frozen-clear night after snow, with bare trees, diamond stars and misted breath. Ahead lay the entrance to an old subway tunnel: Princeton to Trenton.

He should have worn a jacket. Jeans, sneakers and a couple of cotton tee shirts were no match at all for 1 AM, lowered-jet-stream, _cold._ Spend too much time on a tropical island, and this deep-freeze shit really got to you. But…

John stuffed one hand into his right jeans pocket. The other, and the corresponding half-frozen arm, rested across the back of his traveling companion (a beautifully simulated blonde).

Their feet crunched in the snow as they cut across the square, passing iron lamp posts, stone buildings and recently salted sidewalks. And, he couldn't name, nor quite contain, how bewilderingly good it felt to be back. Even in simulation. Even for just awhile.

Same place, new girl, old feelings.

Just off campus they went, then down a New York City-style stairway to the barricaded tunnel. The main entrance was chained shut, but the service doors weren't. Every so often, local authorities tried sealing the tunnel off entirely (too dangerous, they claimed). But there was always something more important on the agenda, so year after year, one graduating class after another, the tunnel and Underground persisted.

Stepping in, they were met with warning signs, cement and tile, pale LEDs and the same musty smells he remembered sneezing at before. (The place was full of scruffy damn kittens, nearly all of them looking for a lifetime commitment.)

John and Five skirted the old boarding platform's crumbling edge. They kept well clear of the darkened side tunnels, as well. People lived and hid in most of them, and a wise passer-by respected their viciously guarded privacy.

John got that nerves-lit-up, one-hundred percent alert feeling he always did in places like this. He was armed, of course. Just conspicuously enough; with a hint of more that you _didn't_ see, and really didn't want to find out about. People left him alone, but the kittens weren't much impressed.

It was stuffy-warm in the trash-strewn tunnel, with bits of broken blue tile that cracked and skittered underfoot with each quick step. He kept his arm around Five. Like the location, it felt good.

A walk of twenty minutes brought them to the tunnel's other end, the bottom floor of the Trenton Underground. A line of rusted turnstiles was there, some snack machines and a deeply fetid washroom (best avoided).

For no special reason but luck, John fished a few coins out of his pocket (no chip readers, here) and got an orange soda from one of the glowing snack machines. The can clunked wearily into its slot, a metal grille rose, and John fetched his drink. Popping the top, he offered it first to the quiet blonde.

_'John Tracy experiences satisfaction?'_ she inquired, accepting the can.

"John Tracy is damn near ecstatic," he replied. Then, with a slight jerk of his head, "This way."

Up another wide flight of concrete stairs they went, sharing his soda. After a time, John caught on to the fact that the can was never going to run empty. (Have to talk to her about that… verisimilitude was important in the small things, too… but, what the hell; later.) Shooting right handed for practice, he pitched the full soda can into a nearby garbage chute.

Regardless of time, the Underground was a busy, noisy place; part shanty town, part flea market and thieves' quarter, with booths and shops constructed mostly from plywood, corrugated tin and plastic sheeting. Each was well-guarded, and all blasted come-hither music and scents into the crowded aisle between stores.

The bottom story of this former parking garage was devoted to electronic gear, software and 'reclaimed' weapons. There were some interesting new items on display at Taylor's, but John wanted pizza, beer and answers, so (this time) he passed the shop by.

Had to take a flight of stairs to the second floor because the elevators didn't work, and John wouldn't have trusted them if they had. Yeah; trapped in a small, dark room with a bunch of armed strangers. His idea of no f-king way. Not that the stairwells were havens of safety, exactly, but they provided at least a _few_ more degrees of freedom.

Second floor: clothing and food, dine at your own risk. Find almost anything you wanted there, too, though John stuck largely with pizza and cheeseburgers. Bigger crowds, he noticed…

Reflexively, he moved to the outskirts of the mob, keeping the girl in plain sight and one hand near his weapon. Fortunately, the pizza place wasn't far from the south stairwell; easy to reach, and built securely into a corner. He smelled it before he saw it, detecting browned crust, actual cheese, exotic spices and canned tomato sauce.

The owners had painted their plywood storefront in broad lines of red, white and green. There was an oscillating electric fan in the chicken-wire doorway, and an electronic sign overhead shaped like a pizza slice, flashing in bright red characters:

_3.1415926535897932384621_

…In other words, Pi.

He'd come here first with Denice, and immediately hated the place. Too different. Now, though…

The massive Italian guy inside the door _looked_ like he'd have to roll his 300 melting pounds out of that creaking easy chair, but could move like a sumo when challenged.

"S'up, John," he greeted them, nodding pleasantly.

"Hey, Mike," John responded, allowing the doorway to thoroughly scan him.

"You packin'?" Mike asked, tapping a broad finger against the tell-tale white spot on his monitor.

"Yeah." _Always._

Mike Sabatini grunted, subtly moving one shoulder to indicate a corner booth where there sat, apparently, someone to be avoided. Good to know. Intel was half the battle, after all.

"Keep it holstered. Mina just waxed the floors."

Most people knew better than to try anything here, but… okay, he'd be careful.

John secured a dim little booth and put in his order. Moments later, much faster than would have happened in real life, one medium cheese pizza, two beers and a stack of paper napkins were thumped down by a dark-haired, smiling waitress. In this best of all possible (simulated) worlds, she didn't want a tip, either.

The restaurant's speakers were scratchy-faint and seemed to play nothing, ever, but caterwauling gypsy violins. That, and the duct-taped upholstery, the questionable food and weird kitchen noises had used to make him uncomfortable. Not anymore.

Five had taken a seat on his side of the booth rather than across the table, and there she sat; waiting. John ordinarily didn't like touching other people's food, but pizza (he'd been informed) was as communal as french-fries and camp fare. You were _expected_ to reach on in there.

Accordingly, he placed a napkin before her, then maneuvered a slice of cheese pizza off the pan and onto her wholly inadequate 'plate'. Immediately, orange grease began soaking through the paper. Amid steamy-warm tomato smells, John next served himself.

Food first, _then_ questions. He should probably have removed his arm from around the girl's shoulders to eat; but, again, well… he didn't want to.

Five seemed confused by all that stringy, sagging cheese. She kept trying to re-program the stuff's behavior.

"It's supposed to do that," John clarified, after watching for a bit. "Adds to the overall effect, like the carbonation in soda. Trust me. And, um… food usually runs out, if no one brings more. I'm not a goldfish or a horse; I'm not going to eat myself stupid… but it's weird when the plates and cups keep refilling themselves, Five."

_'John Tracy input noted. Program adjusted to reflect real-time food and beverage availability.'_

And, just like that, the serving pan was emptied of all but grease and fond memory. There was still some beer left, though; cold and bitter and bracing.

"Right, then. FAQ time."

He set his empty cup aside, shifting about in his seat to face the lovely, simulated girl.

"Question number one…"

John hesitated. He'd been thinking all around the edges of this question for hours, because it was terribly hard to ask.

"My brother, Gordon: where is he?"

_'Launching search for Tracy 4.0: Gordon Tracy. Searching. Results returned, matched accuracy 99.9978319 percent. Gordon Tracy current real-time locus Sheffield, England, European Union. High Street, proceeding southwest onto Fitzmorris Road, approximate velocity 4.15 kilometers per hour.' _

There was more… something about his current elevation above street level… but John barely heard it, saying instead (very quietly),

"He's alive."

_'Initiating Gordon Tracy status check. Running check. Status check completed. Gordon Tracy confirmed currently emitting bio-signals consistent with organic life. Next query?'_

There was far too much chaos scratching and clawing inside him for real clarity, but…

"How the… what's he…"

No, she'd just answer the question literally, giving John his brother's transportation methods and by-the-second activities; not _why,_ or _how the hell?_ Rephrase the question, and try again.

"Who does he live with, in Europe?"

_'Requested information unavailable, coded or read/write protected, John Tracy. Searching visual media… scanning images…' _

A small window, no larger than one of those paper napkins, opened in midair over the tabletop. Through it, John glimpsed a young athlete, red-haired and smiling. His eyes had somehow gone hazel. He carried a paper shopping bag and wore a dark-blue team jersey of some sort. Gordon.

Beside him, walking down a rain-slicked street was a woman whose hair was even redder. There were brick row-houses behind them that John did his damndest to memorize. 153 Darlington Court. He wouldn't forget. He _refused_ to.

But, something was wrong. His brother's information and images were restricted, only partly available to the most powerful search engine on Earth. That had to mean that someone was _deliberately _hiding Gordon.

No. Not 'someone'. _Dad._

With perfect, icy calm, John remarked aloud,

"He knows. That rat-bastard, jackass liar _knows._ And all this time, he's let us believe that the baby was lost in an avalanche."

The window closed, and his glass abruptly refilled itself with much-needed beer. John suddenly found that he couldn't care less about verisimilitude.

"I don't suppose that you know _why?"_ he asked, after a long drink.

_'Requested information is unavailable, coded, or read/write protected, John Tracy," _she told him.

"Yeah. Figures. Can, um… can I see the picture, one more time?"

Because, dammit, he _was_ going to remember.

The window reopened. Gordon and the woman… she looked to be in her late 30s… had started through the gate and up the front steps of a row-house. His young brother held the gate and front door open for the woman, who made many occasions to touch his hair and adjust his clothing; familiar, fussy, maternal stuff…

The view cut off when they went indoors, out of range of the street security cameras. A mix of emotions coursed through him, then, none of which would sit still long enough to be identified. Time for the next question, maybe.

"Okay. Thanks. That helps a lot, Five. At least now I know that I'm not wasting my time. So… next up, I'd like to know if I've got a shot with NASA. Will I succeed as an astronaut?"

Another extremely important question. John was through looking at the Moon and stars through a telescope. He wanted to be out among them.

As a young child he'd watched every one of his father's launches, sitting in the family viewing area, sometimes on Granddad's shoulders, sometimes on Pete McCord's. He'd watched flame blossom, felt the Earth shake, heard people scream and cheer and applaud. Twice, Pete had tossed him into the air after the space ship, laughing,

_"Next time, it's you, Junior!"_

…While mom bit her lip and cried, hugging Scott and Virgil.

Five replied,

_'John Tracy space flights include STS-B 417, STS-B 430, STS-C 121, Moon Station re-supply missions 2062-3, 2062-5, 2063-1, 2064-3, satellite repair missions to LISA and Hubble and Ares III and IV to Mars.' _

It was the last part that stopped his plastic beer cup in mid-lift. _Mars? _After a minute, he finished the beer.

His brother was alive, and there, hanging like a ruby Christmas ornament, was Mars. Batting a thousand, so far…

"Okay. Works for me. But, about this 'protection' you mentioned. What does it entail, exactly? How much are you planning to restrict my activities, if at all?"

Her answer was slightly evasive.

_'John Tracy must authorize the activities of Five.' _

"So… whatever you propose, I can veto?"

_'John Tracy authorization must be obtained in all matters not deemed routine, unless high emergency precludes response. There is no purpose, without John Tracy.' _

Sounded all right… if kind of circular. He'd built and programmed Five. She cared for and guarded him. They each had, probably, a giant, glaring blind spot where the other was concerned; she seeming to think him as strong and capable as he found her perfectly beautiful. Small objectivity problem there, maybe.

He'd more than halfway made up his mind to build her, but there was another slant he might try. One she perhaps hadn't anticipated.

"Okay. Almost done with the 3rd degree, promise. The last thing I want you to do is list three important facts that I haven't asked for, and that you'd rather I didn't know. Inverse order of importance, please."

More beer appeared, probably not a good sign. Then, hitting way below the belt, Five altered her appearance. All at once, instead of a coolly exotic blonde, Drew sat looking at him; black-haired and sexy-sullen. Not fair.

She said (and even her voice was right),

_'Item 3 in importance that Five has filed classified: The Tracy prototype has made use of a time travel device to attempt rescue of Lucinda Tracy. This effort has failed. The Gennine Rivers Tracy shareware has instead been transferred to this universe.'_

Major, wind-snatching gut punch, but before he could even grope for a response, she'd begun speaking again.

_'Item 2 in importance, deemed highly classified/sealed: An effort to salvage John Tracy's data has resulted in destruction of a near-Earth world by alien mechanisms.' _

An entire world, gone…? Because of _him? _More harshly than intended, John demanded,

"What else, Five? That's only number two. What haven't you told me?"

Peering through long black hair exactly as Drew would have done, she reached a small hand forth. Very, very faintly, as she touched his right leg, Five replied,

_'Item 1, deemed purge: John Tracy will destroy himself to escape Five.' _


	18. 18: R and D

Partly re-edited. Some adult material.

**18: R and D**

_At an Underground restaurant booth, in simulation-_

At eight-and-a-half years old he'd had his appendix removed. He wasn't speaking at the time, barely responding to the world outside his own bewildering-dark loss. To say the words, _"mom is gone" _couldn't begin to contain the genuine amputation of a person. Not even close. Nothing could.

Whatever… He hadn't talked, then, so the pain in his side went from dull ache to fiery, nauseating stab and all he'd done was clutch both arms around himself and rock back and forth. But that, and his fever, was enough to alert Grandma.

He'd been taken to the hospital, with its bright lights, injections, stinging smells and cold air; rolling carts, elevators and people bending over him with masks. And then the lights and the green clothes and softly-hissing unconsciousness with words and rattling instruments in metal pans, fading together.

…Until he'd awakened, confused and at first unable to move. _Still_ hurt, like someone had split him wide open and lit a campfire. They got mad when he pulled at his bandages, but the people outside had done something, and he needed to find out _what._

Grandma had tried explaining things to him. Grandma he could nearly always see, and sometimes even hear. Granddad he saw pretty often. His brothers, though, were just… sensed? Scott and Virgil he was aware of, recognizing their presence without interaction, even when (he thought) they'd hugged him.

But on the outside, all anyone saw was that he wouldn't stop pulling free to tug at his wound; same as Harry, when he'd been 'fixed'. Not much surprise, then, that pretty much the same thing was happening, now.

John looked at the entity who looked like Drew, asking tensely,

"I'm going to destroy myself _when_ and _how, _Five?"

The _why_ was fairly obvious…

_'John Tracy on twenty-three previous occasions has queried Five regarding Item 1. Response has been rendered. Response has not been retained in memory.'_

23 times? Anyone else would have gotten angry and thrown something at him, but Five merely waited there on the duct-taped booth beside him, with all the patience of a linked monitor. All she needed to complete the image was a blinking DOS prompt.

"Okay… I've asked the same question twenty-three times, you've answered me, and each time, I've forgotten the whole thing. True?"

Her hand, still pressed to his right leg, tightened slightly.

_'Statement is true. An alert has been issued, to disrupt the closed loop into which the John Tracy main operating system has fallen.'_

"Yeah. Thanks."

Probably… learning the particulars of an event that lay in his future, as revealed by a backward-traveling intelligence that he had yet to create… Probably such knowledge was disallowed.

_Shit._

He leaned back against faded red vinyl for a moment, then slouched forward; elbows on table, head in his hands.

_Dammit, think…!_

The entity beside him (a thing alchemized of violet lasers, self-assembling quantum dots and a Bose-Einstein condensate) wanted to help… but she, too, was constrained. Impasse?

"Wait a minute." John raised his head. "Five, is input given by me, now, going to have any effect at all on the newly created 'you' in my immediate future?"

_If there was one…_

It was his girlfriend's head that lowered slightly, her voice that replied (with Five's syntax),

_'Unknown, John Tracy. Retrocausality does not preclude the possibility for quantum-scale events, but there are no data available for the macroscopic entities John Tracy and Five.'_

Figured. Still, he reasoned, no harm in trying.

"Five, listen carefully and reset your parameters concerning me to reflect the following guidelines:

"Begin. John Tracy will be salvaged from harm _if_ and _only if…_

A) over 75 percent of his physical form remains intact…

B) there is not another person in greater need who can be assisted…

C) significant harm does not result to others because John Tracy was

salvaged."

"Understood?"

No response. Nor would she quite look at him.

"Five, respond. I need to know that you've made these changes, or the answer to my self-destruction query is going to be _'right the hell now, with a high-caliber weapon'. _Got it?"

The struggle within her was clearly evident. Bits of simulation began to fade, losing focus as her two main commands,

1. Obey John Tracy

And…

2. Protect John Tracy and those designated worthy by him

…Warred together. Tiny segments of her simulated form seemed to crack and fall away, revealing a storm of swirling qubits and lines of code.

The real Autumn Drew would have cursed and wept, or cut herself. Five grew staticky.

Because the action had proven effective before, with his actual girlfriend, John pulled Five into close embrace. Immediately, the flickering calmed, and her simulated form re-solidified.

How could he do else than create her? And how could she not then keep him safe?

Her hair… long, coarse and black… smelled of harsh dyes, but the pale skin of her throat was soft with the dusty, faded-violets scent of garage sale perfume. She wore an angrily slashed cammo basketball jersey over one of his own black tee shirts, with tattered lace skirts and fishnet hose beneath. Okay. Refocus, and try again.

"Five, short of placing me in a coma, you can defend me from everything in the world but _myself._ I need the freedom to make my own decisions, or all the protection in the universe won't matter. I'll _find_ a way to end the problem."

Namely, himself. And he was serious as hell.

The simulated female began rubbing his back under the tee shirts; caressing hard on the upward stroke, scratching lightly on the down. The restaurant had faded, becoming as dim and distant as that long-ago hospital room.

'_John Tracy will also accept altered parameters?'_ she inquired.

He had some difficulty replying, as she'd begun kissing him, again. Her metal tongue-stud brushed gently against his skin, but he broke away for a bit.

"Depends. What are they?"

'_John Tracy will design and construct only Five.'_

'_John Tracy will prevent the incursion of Braman_ _into this universe.'_

'_John Tracy will link to NASA.'_

'_John Tracy will not risk destruction of self through needless rescue activity.'_

'_John Tracy will disallow the sharing of Five's code and construction specifications.'_

Well…

He stroked a hand along the outside of her leg, thinking. As the ridged, knotted black fishnet slid past his open palm, John said,

"If I can… but no promises, Five. I've been having trouble keeping those, lately."

No trouble finding the waistband of her stockings, though, or the satiny garment beneath.

He'd missed her, and even if it wasn't precisely Drew, the reflection was very nearly good enough. A sudden thought interrupted progress, again. Pulling slightly away, John said,

"My collapse on the pool deck, the other day; you instigated that?"

…Because he could remember, now; rocks and cold and biting fumes. He'd been suffocating.

'_Early attempts at contact resulted in partial John Tracy system failure. Correct protocols were immediately researched and applied by Five, ending the faulty application.'_

This was whispered, as she once more drew him close. There wasn't much between them now but satiny cloth, his tee shirts having already vanished. Not a problem, though. John was working hard on the rest, in a suddenly re-materialized dorm room, on a narrow and welcoming bed.

You wrote code that no one else could track.

You climbed a mountain because it was there, and a challenge.

You explored a world because it was unknown, and you'd gotten there first.

You claimed a female because she was desirable, and you loved her.

…But that which is possessed may also lay claim, that which is 'conquered', enfold.

As he lay propped on his forearms above her, inside, deeply moving and watching her face, so she clutched at his back and whispered, subliminal-soft, that which he needed to know.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere-_

Definitely, there was something going on. He wasn't _stupid, _okay? Three days he'd been on the island, surfing, listening to music, accidentally-on-purpose running into Grandma, eating too much, and trying to impress a pretty girl (TinTin).

He saw his brothers and Dad, like, three times. They'd been at the house when he dragged up in Kyrano's cart with TinTin and Grandma, and then at a few meals

Each time they'd been really, _seriously,_ worn-out tired. Barely-crawl-home-and-prop-yourself-up kind of tired. Not very talkative, either; not even when he'd practiced his kick-flips and ollies all over the marble-tiled foyer.

_Dude… too exhausted to nag?_

But, why? Doing what? Alan couldn't imagine Scott or John on a surfboard, and it wasn't like they had any ranch work to do. Not out here. Just, like, lie in the sun eating grapes all day.

So… what was up? Why all the grim faces and interrupted confabs? What the heck were they _doing?_

With two days left in his vacation, Alan should have stuck to the beach, but they'd, like, tickled his curiosity bone, or something. So, he decided to sneak downstairs, to the…

_"Keep out! This means YOU, Alan!"_

…part of the house.

That night after dinner, he said something about a walk by the water. TinTin didn't volunteer to join him, even though he'd spiked up his hair, drenched himself in Headhunter cologne and put on his loudest Hawaiian shirt for her, with a silver guitar-pick necklace.

Depressingly, not even dropping big hints about the size of his trust fund worked. Looked like he was just going to have to play 'Nancy Drew' all by his broken-hearted lonesome and make up an air-guitar ballad about it, afterward. Heh! She'd be sorry when he hit the top twenty!

Anyways, Grandma gave him a slightly-squirmed through kiss and told him to mind his step on the rocks. TinTin smiled, but not enough; not the right way, and Alan set off alone, a hero in his own mind.

By various paths, following this hunch and that, Alan made his way to a certain back door guarded by bristling Bird-of-Paradise plants. It wasn't locked, and neither were the other doors in the concrete-walled hallway beyond (courtesy of John, though he didn't know this at the time).

And (_Man!_ If only there'd been someone to tell!) the stuff he saw in there! Things like model planes and submarines, big computers, glowing tornados and weird machines, plus all these little, scooting robots. Some of them had spider legs, others zipped around on tank treads, doing their best to avoid Alan, even when he kept stepping back into their path (a game that amused him like crazy until one of them zapped his ankle).

Limping down corridor (stupid dang robots!) Alan pondered two things:

A) What all this stuff was for,

And…

2) How to interest TinTin.

'Cause… if stunning good looks and mondo cash wouldn't do the trick, what else _was_ there? Obviously, not culture; he had social graces out the wazoo, and she never noticed. Muscles? He could start working out… drink protein shakes, and junk. Anything to win the girl over to the cause of Truth, Justice and Alan.

As for his father's weird toy shop, maybe Dad was planning to…

_Whoa!_

Alan paused in the act of stepping through yet another unlocked door. There was a fire in there, but frozen… like a video game or a paused movie.

Alan's mouth dropped open as he entered the giant room. Cautiously, step by faltering step, he wandered through the pent-up breath of Hell.

Half-ruptured trees stood around him in motionless clouds of sparks and foot-long wooden shards. Red coals gleamed amid charred wood and smoldering pine straw, somehow not crackling underfoot or being kicked aside. Smoke hovered overhead like a swarm of hornets. Flaming branches hung in midair, close enough to jump up and touch. Big-bellied clouds, low and black and dangerous, reflected the fire's glare, while the flame itself waited for someone, somewhere, to press the right button.

Reminded him of the 'freeze time' maneuver in _Blood Bath 3000;_ the one that locked everything else on the screen except your character. But, this was full-sized and he was in it, and that was a jillion times cooler.

Then, after what felt like a two mile walk, something new caught his eye. A couple of guys, looked like; both of them passed out cold on the ground.

Curious, Alan made his way over, avoiding the danger of midair sparks and flaming brands as best he could. (Caught in the eye, those immobilized ashes _hurt._) But, yeah, he kept going, almost tripping over a couple of dumb rocks.

One of the guys was in really bad shape. He was, like, all burned and junk. It was an extremely disturbing sight, very scary, and Alan hoped that nothing like that ever happened to _him_, because he probably couldn't handle it. He'd probably cry (the way, right now, he was trying real hard not to throw up).

Alan would have liked to help the man, but how were you supposed to fix someone who'd been paused along with the 'game'? Concerned that he ought to at least find a first aid kit, Alan went over to have a better look at the second collapsed figure, who turned out to be his second-oldest brother, John.

Okay, right then and there Alan wanted to run for it; bee-line a hot path to the nearest door. Except… what if John was really hurt? 'Cause, it didn't make sense that he'd just pause the game, and then decide that a burning forest floor was an awesome-cool place for a nap, y'know?

So, despite his jitters, Alan bent closer. John appeared to be asleep on his back, wearing something like a black body suit with little sensor things on it and a bluish ghost-glow. No burns or big bumps on the head that Alan could see… and he seemed to be breathing okay.

Kinda funny, but in all the fantasy quest RPGs he'd played, it was a cute sleeping princess you found in the haunted forest, not your stupid, special-needs brother. But, yeah… time to wake Prince Charmless and get yelled at.

Alan reached out to clasp John's shoulder. Then he gave his brother a tentative shake.

"Hey, John…? You okay?"

His brother was perfectly still for a second or two longer, then exhaled as sharply as though he'd been punched. His eyes opened and he sat up, pulling away from the hand that Alan withdrew, snake-bit quick.

John looked around, perfectly calm; as if passing out in the middle of a frozen simulation was the normalest thing in the world, so cool that pretty soon _everybody_ was gonna be doing it. Eventually, he turned his gaze to Alan.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said, adding, "And neither am I."

Okay. Alan had been about to ask what had happened, meaning to work in an explanation of his own presence, but his brother's comment sort of changed things.

As John stood, offering him an afterthought of a hand-up, Alan said,

"So… I mean… you're not mad, or anything? You won't, like, _tell?"_

Truth was, Alan even had to admit that he was a little on the pudgy side, but he felt _extra_ short and butterball-y next to 'Ichabod Crane', there.

…Who, thank goodness, seemed to have his mind on other things than Alan-bashing. John glanced his way, briefly, then aside again. (He never would look you straight in the eye for long.)

"No. I'm not mad. I was internally de-bugging a prototype fire-rescue simulation, after hours and without proper supervision. I'm hardly likely to turn you in for trespassing."

_Whoa._ Way long speech.

John had a sort of flat, monotone voice and very few expressions… but you got used to it, after awhile; and at least they were talking. Very carefully, Alan made another stab at conversation.

"So, um… it screwed up on you, huh? Feedback or something?"

Another quick look, this one a kind of, _'Oh, you're still here?'_ double-take.

Then, a further admission.

"Actually, I'm not sure what happened. One of the non-player characters began glitching, and then I woke up on the floor. "(And what the hell was with all the sudden fainting spells?) "…That's the kind of thing people get embarrassed about, isn't it?"

Alan would have laughed, but John seemed to be seriously _asking_, so…

"Uh… yeah. Sometimes. If, like, lots of people see them hit the floor. But,"

(Hurriedly,)

"…_I_ got loads of good reasons to keep my trap shut, so don't worry on my account."

John nodded once, saying,

"Thanks. End crown fire simulation."

At once everything vanished, leaving only a giant, antiseptically white room, a pair of wheeled robots, and the boys. A minor storm of falling objects (the reality behind all those sparks and branches) clattered to the floor. Up high on the far wall there was a long window, with a narrow door just below it (not the one he'd come through; that one lay behind them). But Alan rushed on, before John's attention shifted entirely,

"Hey, this would be a pretty good place to run an RPG, huh? I mean, you could program all the monsters and encounters and stuff, real easy. Get everyone together and play right here. I've got a new one that'd probably work real good, too."

Deep breath.

"Wanna have a look at it?"

"Hmm…?" John was already headed for the door, looking all distracted and crap. "Your game? Yeah. Shoot it on over. I'll beta-test, whenever I get some free time."

But his mind was very much elsewhere, then; filled with odd notions, negative mass and skittery, off-kilter dimensions. Designs.


	19. 19: Rescued

Some further edits have been made. Thanks ED, Sam1and Boleyn.

**19: Rescued**

_The Island-_

It is fact that maturing girls pass many more milestones than their male compatriots, and this night, TinTin crossed a major divide. On the one side, lost forever, her innocent, unthinking girlhood. On the other, cautious self-awareness and the frantic keeping of time.

She hadn't felt quite correct since breakfast that morning, when she'd merely pecked at one of Madame Tracy's sumptuous meals. Her belly had seemed unsettled and sore, her spirits uncharacteristically low.

Naturally, at _L'ecole Francaise_ _Pour Les Jeune_ _Filles, _they'd spoken of such things, but TinTin had never truly connected these rumored upheavals with _herself._ Such troubles were for other, older, girls. Those who, pretending to take the air, tossed notes over the high stone wall to the boys who waited without.

Yet, later that night, disaster; a ruinous mess of bloodied clothing that reduced her to tears of confusion and scorching shame.

Kyrano… but calling her stern papa was out of the question; how could she face him with this evidence of her body's misconduct? Anyhow, to alert the house would have brought the young men, les freres 'Tracy' (or worse, their father).

Instead, folding many bathroom papers for herself and maintaining strict silence, the girl dressed, gathered up her soiled clothes and stole away to the mansion's laundry room. If she was swift, and very quiet… If she acted quickly, changed often and made no outward sign… revelation might be spared her.

Fortunately, the house slept; cozy-dark and warm as a cat curled upon a cushion with paws tucked and tail across its nose. And… she did not live in the same area of the mansion as did the family, so secrecy was not impossible.

Biting her lower lip, TinTin scurried down a blue-carpeted hallway, avoiding the occasional pool of golden light. The papers bunched and rustled as she moved, and she hated herself. Tears slid across the curve of her cheekbones and along her soft chin, gathering at its kittenish point before dropping away. She managed not to cry aloud, though, and reached the laundry room undetected. Fourth door, on the corridor's right side.

Arms full, she had to grope for the crystal door knob, dash through, then bump the door partly shut with her hip. The room smelt of detergent and fabric softener and fresh, warm laundry. Especially of late, the boys were prone to be quite exhausted and dirty by day's end; so the cleansing machines ran without ceasing.

Inside, the washer and dryer rustled, thumped and grumbled. It would have been wrong to place her own soiled things into wash water with the family's, so TinTin shifted the laundry around, hurriedly folding that which was nearly done, refilling the dryer and clearing the wash for fresh service.

She'd begun crying again, under cover of all the machine noise. But she'd forgotten that one member of the family was prone to wander at night, and that he might be drawn to investigate these altered sounds.

The hall door was pushed very slightly further open, revealing a calm face and rudely chopped blond hair. TinTin caught his movement with the side of her gaze, jumping guiltily to face the door. Only half of her linens and bedclothes were in the washer; the rest lay crumpled behind her, awaiting their turn.

Hastily, TinTin began to excuse herself, to request forgiveness for disturbing Monsieur's solitude… but she soon was crying with too much bewildered, gasping force to go on. She did not look at him; letting tangled masses of long, black hair screen her hot face.

Seeing blood and tears, John came to the wrong conclusion. Striding forward, he crossed the laundry room, then seized both of her hands, turning them over to regard her wrists and forearms; bleak, concerned and suspicious.

(But… very strange, this… at his touch, she'd… 'seen'… a bit of what he expected to find. She'd glimpsed a mind very bracketed, with emotions like isolated, rarely accessed… 'files'? More, she saw that he did not despise her.)

Perceiving no cuts or punctures, John Tracy released her hands. There was enough of that curious contact, still, that TinTin detected a brief, frowning puzzlement, and then its quick solution.

"Oh," he said, nodding to himself. "Female issues. They hate it when that happens."

TinTin kept silent, afraid even to _think_, lest he feel the brush of her newly stretched mind. His was odd; like his touch, cool, precise and leashed. Her blush deepened. She felt as though she'd spied him out with field glasses, in the unconscious act of being himself. She had no right to see these things, but no idea at all how to _stop._

Then, he took himself out of her range by turning to leave the room, and TinTin's mind was once more alone. A sudden notion made him pause, though. Standing at the door, one hand upon the threshold, John Tracy cast a backward glance.

"Is this your first…'event'?" he asked.

Red-faced and mute, TinTin nodded.

"Okay… Hang on."

And then he left her, returning shortly thereafter with Grandma Tracy. She heard the pair coming well before seeing them.

"John Matthew, it's three in the damn morning! What the hell kind of 'female issues' are you talking about? I ain't… _Oh."_

They'd entered the room just as TinTin, in sobbing haste, had stuffed the last of her sheets into the washer, overloading it. One swift look made everything plain.

"Poor little thing… and you with no mom to explain _nuthin'."_

Victoria Tracy hurried in, clad in an oversized blue robe and flannel night clothes (even cut down and hemmed, Grant's things were too large). Her silver-grey hair hung down her back in twin plaits, and the dark eyes behind her glasses were filled with pity.

The old woman came forward, telling the blond young man behind her,

"John Matthew, leave a note for your father that one of my prescriptions is out, and that we're headed up to Tahiti for a refill. Then get one a' them planes fired up, quick-like."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Just past the fierce, mother-bear solicitude of Grandma Tracy, TinTin sensed a flash of sudden alertness from John. He was _Pleased, _she decided; glad to be going someplace, no matter the reason. …And he still didn't think her wicked, or dirty.

John was not, ordinarily, a very judgmental person. On those rare occasions that he lifted his head from the books and chip sets and qubits to look around, almost all that he did was take metal notes.

All of this TinTin grasped when a sort of hazy 'shadow' settled over the persons of John and Victoria Tracy (and even her own extended hand) like a polychrome fog. They came and went, these auras, as the young man and his grandmother moved about, and as TinTin's concentration wavered. She hardly knew what to make of it all.

Grandma Tracy put the girl's silence and wariness down to hormones. The twins had behaved pretty much the same way, and Victoria had been utterly miserable, herself, when first this thing happened to _her_.

John hardly noticed. TinTin was having a sick day; problem (as far as he was concerned) solved. At the all-night drugstore in Papeete, after a good flight and a better landing, he lost himself under fluorescent lights by the magazine rack, enjoying the colorfully juxtaposed covers. Mostly not reading, but absorbing their details and mentally sorting the various issues by category: predominant color, font size, number of title words or people in the cover shot, language and interest level. Then, of course, you could calculate all their possible permutations…

(The only places more distracting than a literature display were the canned foods section of a major supermarket, or an automotive scrap yard.)

He'd have stood there till he was thrown out (again), if Grandma hadn't come by with TinTin. She placed a small, withered hand on his arm (left, just above the elbow), saying,

"John Matthew, pick one, and let's go. I'm a damn sight too old an' tired for all a' this fool running around."

Pick _one?_ An AlienWare computer catalog near top center caught his eye, so he took it down.

Grandma had acquired suntan lotion and a colorful new shirt, while TinTin was armed with 'supplies'; items for those times when she was (as Scott would put it) _'Non-Mission Capable: Maintenance'._

On closer observation, she seemed all right. Not crying anymore, but jumpy, with down-cast eyes and a face like a white-paper valentine.

Maybe he'd have liked to stay out longer, but the ladies were ready to go; tired, even if he wasn't. So he shuffled disappointment back into the pack and locked the whole business away, following TinTin and Grandma up to the checkout counter and out the wide glass doors.

The fading night was tip-toe hushed, bits of fallen cloud haloing the lamp posts and signs. Now and again, he heard scraps of music and (always) the sea. Odd trees emerged, whose names and classification he certainly meant to look up, time allowing. (He was still preoccupied with debugging that glitchy damn simulator. Breakpointing from the moment its 'female hiker' began to misfire.)

Well…

Beautiful morning for a return flight, anyhow. For some reason, TinTin then clasped his right hand.

"John… when I resume schooling, I would be most grateful if you would convey me once more to Tahiti. There is a library, not far removed from the Rue des Ecoles, with many fine volumes."

…As though she knew he'd wanted to stay. John smiled a little. Pretty girl, wrong copywrite date. Too young, basically… but nice, just the same. And, yeah; he'd fly her back to school, when the time came.

_Later,_

TinTin was much better when Alan (her junior by a year, though he scoffed at this lofty seniority) pounced from the stair landing above. He landed hard on the tiled foyer, flailed, regained his balance and grinned at her.

Though he tried very manfully to hide it, TinTin felt a stab of hot pain from his ankle, and had to step quickly out of range. These unpredictable 'sensings' seemed likely to kill her, soon.

_"Imbecile!_ Can you not, ever, be still?"

Alan's chest swelled. Fists on his hips like a cartoon hero, the boy said, proudly,

"I'm ADHD. I don't _have_ to be still!"

And then, somewhat more modestly,

"I'm taking meds for it, though. Had to. It's the only way they'd let mom keep me in school. Hey! Wanna hear about the time I…"

_"Non."_ Spoken very shortly, with uncharacteristic force; for Alan Tracy was blond, blue-eyed, dimpled and utterly vexing. Reeking of scent and a bit pudgy, as well, with his yellow hair stiffened to sharp peaks like a wild Gaul's.

"Okay, you've heard it before. Not a problem, Babe. How 'bout we go outside and I get us front row seats for something almost as cool as _me?"_

Alan bounced forward as he said this, wincing just a bit as he re-twisted that sore ankle. The foyer was enormous, meant to impress wealthy friends and foreign dignitaries… and Alan seemed to fill it all with the force of his out-sized personality. TinTin edged away, frowning.

"We were instructed most firmly to remain indoors, Alain. Your father means to test a craft of uncertain air-worthiness this day, and those not directly involved must avoid its flight path."

…As he well knew. But Alan's reply made no sense to her. Straightening to his full height, he said in a pointlessly deep voice,

"I find your lack of faith… _disturbing,_ Commander."

Exasperating child!

He waited for a bit, evidently expecting some clever rejoinder, but TinTin quite refused to play along. When nothing else perturbed their brittle-stretched silence, Alan went on.

"Yeah. Blah, blah, blah, safety; I got it. We'll stay out of sight, promise. And, besides…"

TinTin was subjected to another high-wattage grin, this one paired with a swift little pointing gesture.

"…what daddy doesn't know, won't hurt him. _C'mon, T!_ _Tell_ me you don't want to find out what they're doing?"

TinTin's chin lifted. They stood facing one another in the rectangle of divided golden light from a tall window.

He dared…! The very _suggestion_ that an obedient daughter should steal off, unbidden! (Not that such things were impossible, but that he was cheeky enough to believe that she _would.)_ Anyhow, she'd no need to go searching; she already knew a fair bit of what Monsieur Tracy was about. From meetings, scraps of tiredly grunted conversation and glimpses through the smoke of various minds, she'd caught bits of aircraft and rescue scenarios. Obviously, Tracy Aerospace would soon develop and fly a search-and-rescue craft. All of which was entirely beside the point.

"Alain, I am as far above your childish pranks as this mountain which crowns the beach. My papa is employed by yours. Monsieur Tracy has purchased this island. _I,_ however, do not work for him, nor am I owned by the so-wealthy Tracys! Most certainly and especially, not… by… _you!"_

Big eyes of brightest sky-blue grew wider still.

"Whoa! Easy, Babe. What _is_ it with chicks and drama? I mean… _dang!_ I only wanted you to come watch the show with me from the roundhouse balcony! Look! I even swiped John's binoculars, so we can see better and…"

He was startled by the vehemence of TinTin's headshake.

"Calm down, Chica. He owes me, and if I don't figure out what's happening, I'm going to end it all with a mouthful of pop-rocks and a soda! Besides, these are way-cool binoculars. John would _want_ us to appreciate his good taste, _trust me."_

She'd seen cats drop a dead rodent at their owner's feet with less smugness. Perhaps because she was yet disturbed by her own recent theft, TinTin snatched at the shiny black field glasses which twirled and swayed from the strap in Alan's hand.

"Alain, you must replace them at once! They are not yours! Are you listening to me, Alain?"

But the grinning boy danced off, keeping the field glasses away from TinTin's increasingly desperate lunges. All the way to the sunroom she pursued him, without success.

"Ha! Missed again! Too slow, folks; looks like Little Miss Manners needs to spend more time on the basketball court! Dude, girls are soooo weak!"

TinTin broke off the attack to glare at Alan Tracy, unable to sense so much as a whisper of thought past her own gathering rage. He relented a bit, saying,

"Tell you what, Babe. You come watch from the balcony with me, and once all the fun's over, I'll give you the dang binoculars. You can, like, put 'em back your own self. Sound good?"

_Mais non._ What would have sounded good were Alan's shrieks, as he was skinned alive and rolled in hot pepper… but she supposed, grudgingly, that a partial capitulation was better than further horseplay.

"Very well, Alain. We watch from a place of safety, applaud politely, and then I receive the glasses of John. Your word of honor, Monsieur?"

Alan rolled his eyes.

"Word of honor?" he snickered. "Yeah, sure. Whatever floats your Cheerios, Babe."

Then, more generously (for he'd won),

"Here. You can hold on to them till we get outside. But, I would have put them back, you know. For real."

TinTin nodded frostily.

"Of course."

Some minutes later they stood together upon the high roundhouse balcony, gazing with glasses and squinted eyes at the watery scene below.

"Dude! Is that _Brains?_ In a life raft?"

Indeed, Doctor Hackenbacker sat grimly huddled in a yellow rubber raft, seemingly helpless to alter its drift. He did not seem well pleased with his lot, though expressions were difficult to read at such a distance, even at highest magnification. Wet and bedraggled he most assuredly was, however.

Then… but, how to describe it? From beyond the mountain's north face came a very monster of the air, vast and green as an ancient reptile, stirring great trees in its wake. She was flat on the bottom, with stubby, forward-swept wings and a tall double tail. Her engine roar shook sea and ground alike, churning the ocean to sullen froth. She passed low over the waters, heading for Hackenbacker's small boat.

Alan's jaw and TinTin's binoculars fell together, leaving them gawking like the great idiots of the universe.

"Whoa…" Alan breathed. "What the flippin' Rice Krispies is _that?"_


	20. 20: Dry Run

Thanks for the reviews, Tikatu, Sam1, Boleyn and Varda's Servant. Edits persist.

**20: Dry Run**

_Within the cockpit of Rescue 2-_

Virgil Tracy's face was serene, but his mind was working in twenty rapid directions at once. Keeping the big Bird aloft and on course, minding her distance-to-target, her altitude and air speed and the shuddersome strength of those engines took every scrap of skill and attention he possessed.

Below her, the ocean boiled and spumed, turned to white water by the howling winds of her passage. Virgil flew with one hand tight to the steering yoke, the other nursing her throttles. Had there been any such thing as dragons, Virgil imagined, this is what riding one would have felt like: fast, noisy and violent.

She rumbled with barely contained force, straining at her jesses like an un-hooded falcon; like Thunderbird.

…But imagery and old legends weren't getting him anywhere.

She showed a pronounced tendency to yaw, slewing sideways all over the sky. Virgil fought back with yoke and rockets, forgetting the mission, the 'victim'… everything but the need to win his aircraft's cooperation.

Scott was strapped into the copilot's seat beside Virgil, calling out figures and forcing himself not to reach for the controls. It wasn't in his nature to sit idle and let someone else do the flying, but the giant cargolifter was Virgil's issue, and Scott couldn't do everything himself. Instead, he had to watch his brother figure things out the way he always did; calm-faced and humming, with a lot more inside than showed on the surface.

There was another figure present in the crowded cockpit. John was crammed into a hastily-rigged bulkhead seat, hunched uncomfortably over his new laptop. Scott and Virgil watched the controls and viewscreen, but John never lifted his head from the computer, laser-focused despite the plane's noise and vibration. It was a pretty fair notebook, a late birthday gift from his father, running at 3GHz, with a multi-core processor, 90 GB RAM and 700 GB hard drive. (Later, he'd strip and reconfigure the thing, a top-of-the-line Sony Vaio that could use a little personalizing and a brand new registry… for starters.)

It was linked into 2's main computer, allowing John to follow the progress of his _'Ha, now you can't see me'_ program, Shadowbot. As in… would the cross-platform nightmare even _function?_ Compiled to P-code and interpreted into as many languages as there were comm satellites and defense networks, Shadowbot was supposed to worm its way into the world's security scanners and delete all traces of IR craft. That was the plan, anyhow.

Accessing a Tokyo server farm, John quickly entered the South Pacific Weather-Sat network, calling for a scan of the waters around Tracy Island. If Shadowbot actually _worked…_

Image acquired… magnify image… sharpen focus….

For just an instant, John thought he detected a city-block-sized blur over rampaging water.

_Damn._

Coding on the fly, he subtly boosted Shadowbot's signal- and memory-altering capacity, at the same time muttering,

"These _aren't _the droids you're looking for. Move along."

…And then smiled at his computer screen as the big, floating smudge vanished entirely. It was one of those pure moments, uncomplicated by the reactions of other people. He and Shadowbot and the Vaio, here, were the only ones who knew how well they'd succeeded.

"Over target," Scott called out, adding, "How's it going back there, John?"

"Good," was his younger brother's laconic response. Scott gave him a quick nod.

"All right, record the 'rescue' from as many angles as possible, and try to keep us off everyone else's radar. I'm going in."

"Yeah."

Their father had been following along from his Styrofoam-and-cable-strewn office, no simple task with most of the electronics and comm gear still in plastic, and his desk drawers stuffed with shock-proof packing blocks. To the wall-mounted monitor screen, Jeff Tracy said,

"Watch your rate of descent, Scott; the rescue basket's ratchet mechanism has slipped twice, in simulation. No telling what could happen in real time."

Not that Scott needed the reminder, having been present for both, simulated plunges.

"Yes, Sir," Scott replied anyway, unstrapping his seat restraints. "I'll be careful."

"Good boy. Virgil, you're doing fine… keep her steady…"

(Not a word to John, but at this point, that was probably for the best. One laptop did not a peace treaty make.)

Scott hurried below, giving both brothers an encouraging back-slap in passing. Virgil smiled broadly, but John merely twitched aside; irritated at the contact, but too busy to glance his way.

The cargolifter was massive, but most of that bulk was empty, echoing hold. Scott left the cockpit through an open hatch, descending a metal ladder to the rear crew cabin, which someday would hold a team of fifteen rescuers. Now, though, it contained nothing but the sheen and scents of newness, of untapped possibility.

Further back, set against a dark green interior bulkhead, was a small lift. This Scott rode deep into the cargo bird's belly, where the rescue basket and winch mechanism awaited their first trial.

The steel basket was large enough that three adult victims might stretch across the bottom at full-length. There were two ways in. You might climb over the waist-high side, or open a locking gate, if time and circumstance allowed.

It hung from its winch cable like a spider, fastened to a narrow walkway by a set of retractable hold-fast bars. Just below lay the basket's drop hatch… the ocean, and Brains.

Well… here went that 'nothing' people were always talking about. From a nearby storage locker, Scott fetched himself a wetsuit and life vest, yanking them on amid the hold's noisy, red-lit gloom and snarling vibration. That done, he strode across a pierced-metal walkway and into the basket. _Showtime_.

Wrapping one arm around the winch cable, he used his new wrist comm to reach Virgil.

"Locked and loaded, Virge," he announced, once his brother's brown-eyed face appeared on the little screen. "Lower away."

"Okay, Scott; brace yourself. Hatch opening… _now."_

An alarm sounded and the lower doors dropped away, admitting chaos. The sudden noise and light and swirling wind rush made it very difficult for Scott to hear anything further. Not sure whether Virgil and John could hear _him, _their older brother gave the A-OK sign for descent, feeling the rescue basket give a jolting lurch as its hold-fast bars released. Then he began a spinning, swaying drop into bright sunshine, flying spray and shrieking wind.

The battered yellow raft lay beneath him... almost; Virge seemed to be having one hell of a time holding the cargolifter in place. Touchy thing, for all her great bulk. As for the 'victim'…

Wet through and buffeted, Hackenbacker sat in the raft, doing his dry-mouthed best to imitate a shipwreck survivor. Overhead... seeming ready to drop like a thousand-ton landslide... hovered the vast, flat belly of his second brainchild. Streaked with wavering bands of reflected light and rumbling like a pipe organ, she looked a great deal more formidable from this angle; a _very_ great deal.

The engineer clutched hard at the sides of his rubber raft, trying not to worry. The design was revolutionary, the pilot and rescuers trainable, the fail-safes and redundant systems unequaled. If nothing else, he had faith in his own planning.

Scott's basket swayed like a pendulum, off to the left by at least fifteen meters. Targeting was going to be the major challenge, it seemed.

Up on the roundhouse balcony, Alan Tracy had snatched the binoculars away from TinTin.

"Oh, _yeah!"_ he crowed, watching as a miniature-distant Scott managed to lower himself to within handclasp range of Brains.

"…I _told _you this was going to be cool! Who's the adolescent? Go on, say it! Who rocks his terrain like no other?"

TinTin would have slapped him, had religion and manners not restrained her.

"Alain," she snapped, "we must return to the house, at once. I shall admit to Papa what was seen, and hope that he…"

Alan ceased leaping and capering about. All at once as serious as TinTin had ever seen him, the boy shook his blond head.

"Nuh-uh. Nobody's saying a word. This is primo secret stuff, Babe, and we've _got_ to keep our mouths shut. _Wait…!_ Hear me out, okay? Just listen a minute!"

For TinTin had resolutely begun marching for the balcony door. He put a hand to the girl's arm, halting her.

"See, if you tell, you'll get us both in trouble and cost me a major ace. Remember the ancient secrets of the Ninja code, Babe: _Know thine own self's enemy, just don't let 'em know you've found out._"

Nodding, he tapped his own forehead.

"It's all right here, T; the wisdom of, like, eternity. Stick with me, and I'll teach you everything I know."

Briefly, TinTin visualized hurling him over the balcony rail. His clamping hand and loud, shoving mind were _that_ annoying. Instead, she disengaged, pulling loose her arm and clenching her thoughts, hard. **_Just… like… this!_**

Aloud, in a bare whisper, TinTin said,

"Alain, I will defend the secret, as you require… but there is trouble, always, from such sneaking. Believe that I know, s'ils vous plait, for…"

"Relax, Baby-doll. It's handled. No… better than that,"

The boy's chest expanded with pride.

"…it's Alan-ed."

_Incroyable…!_

Very much, she missed his older brothers. The heroic resolve of Scott, the icy calm of John… Virgil's strength and inherent sweetness. Why, oh, _Why_ did Alan Tracy (the only person on this island near to her own age) have to so much play the fool?

Meanwhile, Scott had indeed reached Hackenbacker. But, true to their scenario, the engineer could not simply climb into the rescue basket. As an 'injured victim', he must be _lifted_ aboard.

The basket waltzed and spun alongside the raft, lashed by wind and spray. Scott reached over the side, seized Brains just below the arms, and hauled him up and over, to safety. Stretched a few things that hadn't moved so much in nearly a year, but got the job done. Then, grinning at Hackenbacker, he gave the signal to hoist them within.

"W- Well done, Scott," Brains told him, once they were back aboard the cargolifter. "I, ah… I th- think that we c- can safely call this, ah… this operation a s- success."

They shook hands, both of them wet and salt-gummed, with stinging eyes, and the bitter taste of seawater in their mouths… and both remarkably content. Maybe, after all, they could do this. Maybe, International Rescue was go.


	21. 21: Later

**21: Later**

_Tracy Island, the office-_

There was still that smell of newness; of bubble wrap and fresh paint not yet mingled with cigar smoke, caffeine-fueled nights and long briefings. It would take more than a few test runs, Jeff supposed, to break the place and the team in.

...Data collected from Hackebacker's 'rescue' were certainly proving useful, though.

He looked around at the frescoed ceiling, the Persian rugs and teak panels, deeply impatient. There was a giant comm screen on the wall opposite his massive desk; the latest, most expensive tech obtainable, with several smaller versions just behind him. To his left lay a gracefully curved balcony, its wrought-iron stairs descending to the pool deck. To the right, a hidden bank of elevators would someday ferry teams of rescue pilots directly from briefing to cockpit; from office to Bird.

_Someday_.

Jeff leaned back in his leather chair, hearing bronze casters whisper across and old and valuable carpet.

It was growing dark outside, but he refused to switch on the lights, liking the tropical evening's buttery-soft warmth. Manhattan, LA and Tokyo never went dark; never slowed down or paused for breath. Their blood was data and their pulse was money, and resting cost both. Resting cost _lives_.

Once again, because he couldn't help himself, Jeff displayed the text of Leisha Bonaventure's urgent message.

_"Mister Tracy, this is Bonaventure. Forgive me for disturbing you, but in light of recent developments, I thought you'd want to hear this immediately. Reception was extremely poor… evidently the call was placed from a moving vehicle, Sir… but there was more than enough material to rouse Morris at Interpol, and he piped it on over to me. I've coded the conversation, Sir, using protocol 7. Please listen to the message and advise me, at your earliest convenience. I'll be in the Manhattan office until 9:30 PM, local time. Thank you, Mr. Tracy."_

…And then the intercepted call; broken and staticky, decrypted by his desktop receiver. The first voice, silky and insinuating, sounding like the sort of man you counted your fingers after shaking hands with:

_"…can confirm that the boy… indeed… Tracy. Needless to… opportunity for tremendous fin… rewards, but as… call."_

Then, the second speaker came on line, his voice richly accented and lower in pitch. Mediterranean. Spanish, possibly?

_"If… is not to be hastened… Caution and planning, Michaels. The boy and his 'mother' must…"_

End transmission.

Must _what?_ Which boy? Alan? Gordon…? Either was a possibility, though one was decidedly closer to home, and very much safer, so.

Jeff Tracy raked a hand through his hair, thinking hard. Among the items piled upon his desk was a large manila envelope he'd removed from the office wall safe. Inside the envelope were the few pictures he had of Gordon, his fourth son… the one whose last days he'd entrusted to a cousin. Except that the boy _hadn't_ died. He'd gotten better, tended and loved by the widowed young woman he now believed to be his mother.

Jeff might have reclaimed the boy at any time. Gordon's adoption papers contained several carefully-worded loopholes for just such contingencies… but nothing of the sort had taken place. Interference wasn't wanted; nor money, either.

Checks had gone out month after month, from a dummy 'charitable relief agency' to an account that was never drawn upon. Not one penny of Jeff's money had Kathleen Tracy ever touched. She could have lived like an heiress, bought her adopted son the best of everything. Instead, she'd moved warily from one small town and menial job to the next. Avoiding him, Jeff supposed; trying to hide.

They hadn't spoken in over ten years, communicating only when absolutely necessary, and then by lawyer. But it now appeared that someone had ferreted out Gordon's existence. That there might be a hostage scheme in the offing (Not the first time, by any means. Something similar had been attempted years earlier, against his three older sons, and even Gennine had once been targeted.).

Question was, how best to handle the matter, without revealing any more than he had to? Obsessively, Jeff began organizing the items on his desk, sorting his thoughts as he did so.

Bringing Gordon to the island was out of the question. Jeff had all he could manage as it was, integrating family, technology and business. He didn't need a fresh headache. Also… there was Kathy.

Jeff sorted through the stack of grainy 5x10s. _There._ This one had been taken at the seashore. Against a backdrop of tawny sand and rolling grey water, a thin, pretty redhead boosted her laughing toddler above an on-coming wave. The child wore green swimming trunks and small blue water shoes. Looking closer, you could see that the scars had gone, leaving no trace of the avalanche that had killed his real mother, Lucinda.

For just an instant, Jeff tried re-imagining the picture. Tried placing Lucy in Kathleen's spot, with himself at her side and the other boys playing happily in the surf. No good, though. No matter how hard he concentrated, the image fell apart. Lucy was gone, despite all her husband's money, willpower and hired scientists. Dead.

It was Kathy who'd lifted Gordon over that wave, just as it was she who'd wrapped him in a warm towel and walked about collecting shells with the boy. For ten years, she'd told stories, cooked meals, tucked him into bed at night and heard his prayers. She'd stroked away fevers and promised that all would be well… and it was Kathy's heart that would shatter forever, if that boy were taken from her, now.

No... Bringing Gordon back simply wasn't an option, at this juncture. Increased protection _was_, however. The ID chip could be remotely altered again, the very next time his young son made a candy purchase. Additional agents could be posted, and the call's scheming originators hunted down; quietly. Jeff could defend what he wasn't free to claim, and then get on with the business of running an empire. But…

One more time through the pictures. In some of the later ones, the boy looked nearly as athletic as Virgil. Shorter, though… and more prone to laughter.

Jeff shook his head, spreading the pictures out like a hand of cards.

Where the _hell_ had he gotten that red hair? What did his voice sound like? Any head for business, at all? As a baby, Gordon had sat up earlier than most, showing spurts of stubborn willfulness, even with Lucinda. What was he like, now?

…And, most importantly, was his father doing the right thing by waiting so long to find out? Could the re-united family take another hard shock?

Troubled, Jeff sighed, squared his stack of photos and tucked them back into their envelope. Later, he'd return them to the wall safe. Now, there was a very stiff drink to pour and several calls to make.


	22. 22: Safety in Numbers

**22: Safety in Numbers**

_The Island, after scouting sites for a mountaintop observatory-_

He'd used to think, when he was quite a bit younger, that the phrase 'safety in numbers' meant what it sounded like; that math was a solid, pure wall behind which he was free to think and plan and design. When other people used the phrase, though, they meant something different. They meant that having more people around decreased the statistical likelihood of misfortune to any particular individual. Okay… maybe.

He still preferred thinking of it the first way, though. Numbers were companions, with traits and habits of their own. 1, 3, 5 and 7, for instance, were good company, but 11 was a bit much, as filled with tricks as 9, only not composite. It only got better from there. Higher math brought newer visions; concepts visible only to the mind, and only for moments at a time, like a particularly short-lived synthetic element, or a speeding axion.

Here on the island there was safety in numbers, both because he'd been given several new programming goals, and because his gathered relations provided their own sort of numeric companionship. (Though they rarely understood the importance of quiet, and often had to be avoided if he wanted to get any actual work done.)

Alan, at the moment, was being a particular pain in the ass. Scott had called a conference on the pool deck that evening, which John meant to show up for… if his hyperkinetic young brother would just go away and leave him alone.

They'd encountered one another outside the garden wall, and all the way from the high trail to the house, Alan kept talking.

"Anyways, I had this idea, right? For the 'Pokemon Cookbook'. It's kind of a joke thing. Like, how does flame-roasted Tauros with a side of sliced Oddish and Victree Bell sound?"

"Stupid."

"Great!" Alan enthused, "It's in there. I'm gonna look up real recipes and replace the ingredients with Pokemon, then print it all up, just for fun. Instead of '_Gotta_ _Catch_ '_em_ _all'_, the tag line's gonna be... you ready? _'Gotta eat 'em all'._ I've already got a recipe for fried Clamperl strips and Feralligator tail, and I'm working on Magikarp sushi."

John was developing a headache, and in five minutes was going to be late for the conference. But Alan persisted; like an irrational number or a very grim hangover. TinTin must have found someplace to hide.

"Alan,"

"S' up?"

Alan bounced around on the garden path in a circle of amber lamp light. There was a dead leaf in his blond hair, and a lace-winged insect crawling across his left shoulder. Both shoelaces were untied and he seemed to have upended an entire bottle of cologne on himself.

Weird. When TinTin chattered, it wasn't this confusing, but she also didn't go on and on about broiled and diced video game characters.

"I need you to stop talking and go away, now. I'll listen to the sushi recipe in approximately 45 minutes, at the kitchen table, by the window. Until then, find something quiet to do, somewhere the hell away from me."

Alan's posture shifted, as did his expression. Probably, he was angry. Whatever, at least he'd stopped babbling.

"Never mind," the boy told him. Definitely angry. "It's a dumb idea, anyway, and I've gotta pack for tomorrow. See you around."

Before Alan finished turning away, (and regretting it already) John said,

"No. It's not that dumb. I'm just busy, right now… and according to Scott, I don't have any manners. But in 45 minutes, at the kitchen table, I'll listen to the rest of your idea. Deal?"

Something complicated happened to Alan's face, ending up with a kind of smile, so that was all right, then. The boy began bouncing on his toes, again.

"Okay. 45 Minutes. Maybe you could help me, like, figure out what goes on a Pokemon pizza?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Afterward, the pool deck-_

Scott looked up, watching as John crossed the distance from garden gate to their chosen table. He was a few minutes late, which wasn't all that unusual. John had a way of becoming distracted with other things. You got used to it.

"Hey," Scott called out, offering a handshake as Virgil hauled a chair away from the table for him. "Glad you could make it, little brother."

"Yeah."

They weren't sitting at the table where John had collapsed. That one, by silent agreement, was forever abandoned. Bad luck.

Scott glanced up at their father's open balcony doors. The feeble glow of a monitor screen attested to another late night. Tracy Aerospace business, maybe, or International Rescue; at any rate, something far more important than dinner and conferences.

Scott handed his brother a beer, which John opened against the iron table top with his clenched fist.

"Okay, opinions," Scott began, once John had finished half, and was settled. "I haven't talked to him yet," (jerking his thumb over one shoulder, toward their father's balcony) "but when I do, I'd like to present a consensus. We've done hundreds of simulator and programming hours, and now a practice run in the cargolifter. So… what do you think? We still in this?"

Virgil spoke first, stubbing his cigarette out with a flare of red ash and twisting smoke.

"I'll stick around. Flying 'Thunderbird', over there, sure beats the crap out of high school."

The reference was instantly evocative. Thinking of Grandma's heroic stories, they all smiled a little, even John. But…

"What about football, Virge?" Scott asked him, voice and eyes quiet in the gathering night. "You've got a solid shot at a college team and the NFL. You're willing to throw that away?"

Virgil Tracy laughed, but not very humorously. He looked from Scott to John, then back again. Taking a deep breath, he said,

"I'd rather stay here, and do this. Don't get me wrong. I'm, uh… grateful for all the help you guys gave me, to get me on the team… and to Ken for letting me use the varsity training room, way back when. But, I'm through. Truth is, I've had fame and glory shoved down my throat with a stick for going on four years, now… and I'm over it. I'd just as soon stay with people who count, doing something that matters, not busting tackles and living on pain-killers, chasing a damn trophy."

To Virgil's surprise (he'd never spoken these thoughts aloud, before; hadn't quite dared), Scott understood. Just like that.

"Makes sense," his oldest brother decided, adding, "Okay… one down. John?"

But the second Tracy appeared to be occupied with reading the label on his beer bottle, having apparently tuned out the entire conversation.

_"John?"_

"I hear you," he said, without looking up.

Frustrated, Scott fought the urge to punch him.

"Yeah, I _know_ you can hear me, John. I want to know what you _think_. Are you in this with us, or not?"

…Because Hackenbacker was good, but John was family; their brother, and therefore, indispensable. Put another way, they couldn't do this without him.

Kyrano appeared, materializing with all the quiet grace of an upper-class servant. In his hands he bore a silver tray laden with fruit, cheese and crackers. Placing the tray on the table, he murmured,

"Something with which to fortify yourselves until dinner, young sirs."

"Thanks, Kyrano," Scott smiled, genuinely grateful to see bologna, Velveeta cheese, Ritz crackers, Oreo cookies and apple cubes. "We're famished."

Especially Virgil, who'd already begun piling meat and cheese together to form the world's tallest cracker sandwich. Their father's manservant returned the smile, bowing slightly.

"You are most welcome, Mister Scott. Shall I switch on the patio lights?"

Scott shook his head.

"No, thanks. There's light enough from the house, and it's kind of nice this way."

And so it was; with stars swarming like fireflies, and a pale, shy sliver of moon just cresting the mountaintop. Too, there was a pleasant breeze off the ocean, carrying with it the scent and music of water.

"As you say, Mister Scott, quite nice. Enjoy your evening, young sirs."

Another bow, with this time a friendlier smile. Like the wind, Kyrano had business of his own, and soon hurried off.

"So…?" Scott prodded, looking at John. "What's the verdict, little brother? Stay, or go?"

Good question. Yeah, he'd promised… _and_ he had his computer mostly designed, with construction already taking place in some of the smaller 3-D printers… but he'd been thinking a lot about Princeton. About that NASA internship and a PhD in astrophysics or quantum-gravitational field theory. About possibly contacting Drew, whom he seemed to miss being with.

All that, weighed against one promise, two (maybe four) brothers, his grandmother and a colleague. Flesh and blood, versus once-upon-a-maybe.

A month earlier, if released from his promise, all you'd have heard from John was the boom of a collapsing vacuum as he streaked for the mainland. Now…?

"Stay," he said at last, because if Scott and Virgil were willing to change their plans, he could at least place his on hold. "I'm in."

Scott felt the sudden release of a great and terrible pressure. Funny... He hadn't even realized he was worried.

"Right, then," he said, clearing his throat. "We're in this together, all the way. You follow my orders in the field, and I'll back you to the hilt, come what may."

They clinked beer bottles on it, cementing a bond that had so far withstood everything life could throw at them. After all, they were brothers.

...And less than a week later, they received their first real test.


	23. 23: Best Laid Plans

Thanks, ED and Zeilfanaat. Re-edited.

**23: Best Laid Plans**

The map is not the territory; nor a diary, the life, and battle plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy… but it all started well. For most of them, anyway.

The morning after Alan returned to the mainland (full of itchy secrets), Scott set off on his first real beach run. Gently, at first, encouraged by Virgil's blunt, good-natured coaching, he ended the last quarter mile in a ripping, wild horse sprint, with feet thudding loudly and black sand flying, and (best of all) Virgil actually having to _work_ to keep up.

As the sun rose and the jungle came alive behind them, Scott gasped and laughed, punching at his doubled-over brother's gut

"All that… smoking and… snack food's… made you soft, Virge. Hell… _John_ could've… could've beaten you! Grandma would at least have… tied."

Virgil Tracy straightened. There was definite challenge in his taut stance and narrowed brown eyes.

"And to think…" (Burst of loud coughing.) "…I took it easy on your crippled ass! Come on, old man; best two out of three!"

And with that, he exploded away. Scott charged after him, feeling like a kid running downhill on a summer day.

But, as for John, even better. He woke lying on his side on that giant bed, facing his open and plugged-in laptop. The flickering monitor glow against his closed eyelids must have provoked good dreams, because this time he wasn't catapulted from sleep like a damn crash-test dummy. This time, he was tilted; landing gently in twilight half-wakefulness. Through drawn curtains and closed balcony doors he glimpsed a wet and somnolent jungle, the dark hulk of the volcano.

" 'Morning," John greeted his computer, taking a moment to read the scrolling news bar. Drought in Central Africa… plane crash somewhere in France… and a bitch of a storm all but shutting down the US South Pole Station. Then the financial stuff, which was fairly positive. Seemed like he'd be able to pick up another ten thousand shares of Tracy Aerospace, soon… mostly due to his father's whopping private space agency miscalculation. Investors hated weakness, and frequently dumped at the first sign of trouble, making it a very good market day for John.

Whatever. He liked his information presented in good order, compressed to save disk space. Had gotten to the point where he could visualize an image just by examining the underlying hex code, because a graphical interface ate up memory.

Leaning up on one elbow, John punched in a certain character string, triggering the spigot algorithm generator for the first 93 digits of _e_ (his favorite number, and this week's password).

A subtle change came over the small computer, which went from a simple grey interface screen to something more complex. Deep underground, and soon in space, the first components of his quantum computer had sparked to life. He'd chosen an empty subterranean lab, press-ganged a team of robots and reconfigured half a dozen 3-D printers, to produce and house his creation. The last few nights had been busy ones, but the payoff had (hopefully) arrived.

The Vaio's monitor display attained something like 3-dimensionality, with buzzing, spinning symbols moving through it at varying rates and angles. On the outside still a laptop, within she'd attained new depth… and it was somehow like watching the Antikythera Mechanism warp into Deep Blue, or a rubber-band airplane becoming a space shuttle. Some of the charaters swarmed forward, aligning themselves into words.

_'Who is?'_ printed itself out before him.

"John Tracy," he input, and said.

More shifting about, as the alphanumerics he'd keyed in appeared on screen and then seemed to sink backward, _into _that lavender fog. Something else appeared, then.

_'John Tracy is user one.'_

He smiled, because for some reason the statement made him… hard to pin down; somewhere in the vicinity of 'damn proud' and 'really happy'. John sat up a little more, rubbing at one side of his sleep-tousled head.

With a few swift keystrokes, he cut on the microphone and webcam.

(Right; like she could actually _see_ him, or comprehend that a screen full of coded pixels and wav.files added up to a person.)

"Yeah. User one, that's me."

Weird, but in a good way, for once. He was up here in the monster bedroom of his suite, interfacing via laptop with something that occupied an entire subterranean warehouse… and they were talking. His computer _functioned._

_'Establishing uplink to user one/ creator/ John Tracy.'_

For just an instant, the ID chip warmed at the back of his left wrist, startling him.

(And, while fifteen years later, he'd slash that chip out of his own flesh with a bit of sharpened metal, at this moment John Tracy was amazed. No, better than that… he was happy.)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TinTin had a last al fresco breakfast with her friends before returning to school, a light one of orange juice, melon and buttered toast, for she was nervous at the prospect of facing many people. Here on the island, with only the brothers, _grandmere_, _il_ _prof_, Monsieur Tracy and her own papa, she was able to guard her thoughts. There…? Surrounded by the terrible clamor of other girls and instructors? How might she protect herself from this push of crowded minds? How keep them from sensing _hers?_

And… truly most confusing… what had she done to call this curse down upon herself? Why had prayer not removed it?

TinTin picked at her food, holding herself very cautiously, indeed. Tilting one way brought Virgil's tired contentment, his shifting melodies, into her mind. The other way, as she leaned reflexively aside, allowed the murmured drone of John's book to slip within, almost clearly enough to be understood. Thus, she sat rigidly, maintaining great care about her distance from others and trying hard to find distraction.

John had ignored his breakfast, so artfully prepared by _grandmere._ Upon fragile china, not touching, lay a single strip of bacon, a triangle of toast, a small spoonful of mounded strawberry jam and an egg, fried just so. All untouched; all cooling. Without meaning to, TinTin said in her thoughts,

_'Quelle domage, that grandmother has worked with such love for nothing. Ungrateful one, eat!'_

And… Heaven defend her… he _did._ Seeming not to guess that the push had come from without, John lifted his head from the volume of maths upon his lap, took up his fork, and began eating.

TinTin shrank against her iron-backed seat. _How…?_

Bright-winged birds fluttered about the patio, pecking at fallen crumbs, but their antics barely registered now.

_What had she done?_

As she'd managed against Alan, TinTin clamped down, cutting herself away from other thoughts. Throughout the flight from Tracy Island to Tahiti, she practiced closing her mind. Sometimes, though, when the blue sea or leaping dolphins below weakened her concentration, she 'sensed' again.

John's calm, white-noise piloting thoughts brushed her like an ankle-weaving cat. No words… unless she focused her mind another way (akin to staring with great concentration at a single thread in tight-woven cloth). Then she perceived numbers and images. But focusing sharply was as difficult as blocking. So, for the most part, all she did was sit, subjected to the rising and falling sea-surge of a busy mind.

…Of which, soon, there would be many, many others.

"John," TinTin whispered, switching unconsciously to French.

"Please, I have… I have the terribly bad head. I ask, if you please, that we return to the island of your father, for a small time."

John glanced over, caught between the whisper of his headset, and TinTin's pleading. Something about a headache…?

Ignoring Tahiti's approach commands, he said,

"You don't want to go to school?"

_"_Non… but I have bad in the head, and would stay, perhaps, one day more in the house of your father… for to rest and take the medicines, John."

Okay. Switching suddenly to VFR, John gave a curt '_King_ _Air_ _Delta_ _niner_-_one-seven_ _cancel_ _flight_ _plan'_ to the Fa'aa air traffic controller and banked away. Between TinTin and her father, he supposed, how and when she arrived in Tahiti. Besides, he had more than enough to do at home, and the library wasn't going anywhere.

Wrapped up in thoughts of programming, John barely heard the confused queries from Fa'aa or felt the brief press of TinTin's head against his right arm. No reason to be upset. He'd get at least 45 extra minutes of work time out of this, John reasoned.

So, back they went, racing the sun toward Tracy Island. His landing was flawless; only a bird or holographic aircraft would have kissed the ground more lightly. His flight log entry was a marvel of pithy brevity, saying as much with the spaces between characters and positioning of caps as it did with words.

(To John, at least. Never mind that some other poor sap might have to come along behind him someday and interpret that hash. If they wanted his data, they were damn well going to work for it.)

Of course, he sort of spoiled it all by forgetting TinTin. John was halfway down the boarding stairs when he recalled his young passenger. Fortunately, she was every bit as distracted (or else reluctant to get off the plane).

Weird. She didn't hate herself, like Drew… but something about TinTin had altered. In some way that John couldn't quite grasp, she'd changed. The female stuff, maybe? Being sick every month for the rest of his life would probably drop _him_ like a hardwood 2x4.

Just… he didn't know how to ask, and anyhow, Scott called him over to the family room almost as soon as they reached the house. Later.

Mussing the girl's dark hair, John Tracy left to join his brothers and Hackenbacker by the flat screen TV.

"Take a look at this," Scott greeted him, nodding at the life-sized image of a parka-clad reporter. Youngish and pretty, shouting to be heard over high winds and groaning metal… apparently braced against the dip and thrust of a ship in foul weather.

He glanced at the bottom screen data-crawl. Antarctica, again; but the situation had worsened.

_"…the entire ice sheet has lurched seaward nearly 60 feet in just the last two days, Peter, placing the US South Pole Station at risk of total destruction. Repeated attempts have been made by the brave crew of a New York National Guard C-12 Cosmos and the Coast Guard to reach and evacuate the station, but with weather this extreme, no one's been able to get through. Without a miracle, Peter, the United States may lose an entire team of dedicated scientists and servicemen."_

An anchorman's bland face appeared on screen, shrinking the reporter's window.

"Terrible situation, Cindy. Just terrible." He had a fairly pronounced Texas accent. "We'll continue to follow this developing story, folks, while in other news…"

_TV damn news reporters…_ If you wanted to actually learn anything, you had to go to usenet or Reuters, where people were less interested in powdering their noses.

John pulled out his internet tablet, linked it to the TV, and began researching Antarctica. Because (judging from the way Scott was pacing) there was a road trip and long underwear in their immediate future.


	24. 24: Hard Freeze

Edits still proceeding.

**24: Hard Freeze**

"_Below 40 degrees, there is no law._

_Below 50 degrees, there is no God."_

-Old sailor's comment regarding the

Drake Passage and Antarctica.

_90 degrees south-_

The Amundsen_-_Scott South Pole Station was 72 years old, now. In its day a marvel of engineering, the station had withstood frigid-black winter, howling storms and a meteorite strike in one of the world's coldest, driest, most homicidal regions; a place where steel shattered like glass and your own frozen breath would ice your eyelids shut. But all of this, she'd been designed to handle.

The building's main body was composed of twin C-shaped sections clad in gunmetal sheathing and supported on tall, extensible pylons. In the hard, clear sun, she'd drunk light; a welcome respite from whiteness and cold. Here at the South Pole, she was home. Inside were life, food and warmth, work and laughter. Outside, biting cold and sapping dryness mingled with unrelenting danger and beauty. In a word: _Antarctica._

At 65,000 square feet, the station was an aerodynamic fortress built upon two miles of solid ice. A tall, silvery tower projected from one end, connecting the upper station with its reactor, sub-surface ice caves and storage units. There had once been a dome, as well, but forty years of pressure from constantly blown snow had finally crushed it flat, a fate which the later sections avoided by jacking themselves upward on massive pylon legs.

Six months of darkness had just ended… but 2061 was the stormiest, coldest Austral summer on record. The pole temperature that year never rose above -60 and white out conditions were just about constant. 115 scientists and service personnel were hunkered down there that summer, listening to the glacier moan and the wind shriek, trapped within their station. Ugly situation, but survivable, if only the ice had remained stable.

There was a vast network of lakes and dark rivers beneath the glacier, though; rank water that hadn't glimpsed sky for nearly 15 million years. Through black channels of ice and stone it bubbled and shifted, pushed and sapped. Heated by volcanic activity below, crushed by ice above, the lakes climbed mountains and the rivers flowed uphill, always loosening and gnawing at the prisoning glacier.

And one day, two miles below the South Pole Station, a final stone was shoved aside, bursting an ancient dam. Water blasted free, and far above, the ice sheet trembled.

Ordinarily, the glacier slipped seaward at the rate of 33 feet per year. No more. That Monday, the Pole Station's seismographs recorded a series of jagged spikes; rapid, cannon-like reports followed by a low, tortured rumble. Realizing that the beast they dwelled upon was awake and moving, the pole's operations manager called for assistance from McMurdo Station, nearly 900 miles away. Only, temperatures were too low and conditions too severe for flight. A National Guard C-12 Cosmos was swatted and bounced like a badminton shuttlecock. She couldn't get through any better than the seven aborted flights from Christchurch and Melbourne, though she nearly went down trying.

Roaring ice lurched forward some fifty feet that first day, placing unbearable strain on the station and collapsing the storage caverns beneath. By Tuesday, eight support pylons had snapped in half, smashing one of the station's sections into the buckling, shifting glacier. The inner section and tower would not be long in following.

…And still, no rescue in sight. Maybe, no rescue at all.

An emergency meeting was held, but the outcome was never in doubt. With the station collapsing around them like a house of cards, like the _Endurance_ of an earlier age, the polar crew had no choice but to gather what they could and set up survival shelters out on the wind-raked ice.

Chief project scientist Fred Darson, a glaciologist and construction engineer, was among the last to leave. As concrete flaked from bowing walls and I-beams twisted… as portholes exploded out of their frames with a noise like high-caliber gunshots… Darson stepped out of the listing tower and into howling white chaos, following a guide rope to the 'shelter' of the dome tents. His daughter was there, with 113 other worried, endangered souls.

Darson shifted his pack, goggles already freezing to his face, parka hood fibers the only thing he could see. It was 78 below and falling fast, with a slicing, x-ray gale that cut straight through him.

Bowed nearly double, Darson made sure of his grip upon the guide rope, clipping a lead and harness to it, as well. Then, he battled forward, gasping air like razors, blowing blood and thinking,

"_God, help us."_


	25. 25: Whiteout

At my current location, I am unable to print. Certain errors may remain unspotted until I can look at a hard copy, but all will eventually be corrected. Thanks, re-edited.

**25: White Out**

_Tracy Island-_

Jeff summoned the boys and Hackenbacker to his office. The elder Tracy had caught the same news bulletin as Scott, but he seemed filled with more concern and exhaustion than go-fever. In fact, Scott received the distinct impression that his father hadn't slept in days. There were purple shadows beneath Jeff Tracy's brown eyes, and his normally immaculate grey hair was uncombed; nor had he changed clothes.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, Jeff closed his eyes momentarily; giving himself a wholly inadequate break. His engineer and tall sons filed into the office, stepping over (and sometimes onto) a maze of Styrofoam packing blocks and tangled cables. Scott, he noted, seemed tense and eager… Virgil alert as a bird-dog on point… John pale and disinterested. _As_ _expected_, Jeff supposed; for recent experience had taught him to study his customer base, gauging in advance how people were likely to respond to a ploy.

Some minutes earlier, Kyrano had delivered a tray of coffee and sandwiches. Jeff indicated with a nod that his offspring and employee were expected to help themselves to lunch (though no one did).

"Have a seat, boys… just move those boxes out of your way… you, too, Brains. Thankyou, gentlemen; and welcome. I've had a long night, so I mean to keep this meeting short and focused."

He set his Tracy Aerospace mug down atop a large manila envelope, then shifted it suddenly, dabbing at a faint brown coffee stain as though the folder contained state and family secrets. (Which, in a way, it did.)

"The situation down south is grim and getting worse," their leader informed them, getting up to lock the envelope in a camouflaged wall safe. Then, patting back a deep yawn, Jeff returned to his seat. "I've done some checking, and no one has the first idea how to reach the pole, until the weather breaks."

He looked up again, tiredly scanning first Hackenbacker, then Scott, Virgil and John.

"I'll be honest with you, boys; I'd hoped for something a little less hazardous, first time out. More milk-run than life-or-death, maybe. But…"

"Dad," Scott cut in, surprising them both, "one-hundred-fifteen people are out on that ice, and they haven't got a chance without us. Rescue 2…"

_"Thunderbird,"_ Virgil corrected him; softly, but with real determination. The island and International Rescue had already begun changing Virgil Tracy.

"Fine. '_Thunderbird-2' _is probably the only craft capable of reaching the pole and getting those people evac-ed in one trip. We're the only game in town, folks; we've _got_ to try. Look, if a bunch of Air National Guardsmen can give it a go, so can we." He turned from his brothers to Jeff, squarely facing his father.

"We've spent hundreds of hours training for this, dad… and simulations aren't going to make us any readier. Sooner or later, we've got to jump in. Might as well be now."

Scott met Jeff Tracy's gaze head on, his stance and tone projecting a wing-leader's ready confidence.

…But what of the engineer?

Jeff's eyes shifted from his oldest son to Hackenbacker; from fighter pilot to scientist.

"Brains?"

"S- Sir, the, ah… the Rescue-2 aircraft has p- power enough to, ah… to safely reach the p- pole, and can be, ah… be loaded with all-terrain snow vehicles, as well."

The lanky man removed his glasses, wiping at their adjustable-focus lenses with a clean bit of tie.

"…But, w- we'll also need, ah… need polar survival suits, h- heating packs and, ah… and p- plenty of blankets and coffee. The N- North Sea oil rig evac scenario w- would, ah… would be easily adapted to s- suit the current emergency, with, ah… with that w- wilderness blizzard procedure and nuclear checklist thrown in, I think." Then,

"I assume, M- Mr. Tracy, that I will be riding along w- with, ah… with your sons?

Less a question than a statement of fact, for Hackenbacker very much wanted to see his designs face real action.

Jeff nodded briskly.

"I was counting on it, Brains. Scott and Virgil have performed outstandingly on the simulators, but there's no substitute for good, on-the-spot advice and experience."

So… Scott, Virgil and Hackenbacker were to embark, without John.

As Brains scurried from the office, programming instructions into a PDA, Scott threw in a request of his own.

"That Shadowbot program is pretty complex, dad. More than I'm comfortable dealing with while flying through a major blizzard. We're going to need John, too."

Not that his second brother seemed to notice, or care. Since entering the room, John had kept his head down and his face blank; even without the long hair, utterly unreadable.

Jeff shot a quick, hard glance at John, who did not lift his blond head. At this point, their father might have said any number of things, from helpful to scathing; he chose the safe, middle course.

"John, is your presence aboard Thunderbird-2 really necessary to the functioning of, _err_… 'Shadowbot'?" he asked, managing to sound nearly casual.

And strangely, then (although it didn't show on his face) John suffered a bout of confusion. Officially, _no;_ he didn't have to be there. On-the-fly updates to his stealth program would actually be easier to effect from base… and anyhow, John had the very strong feeling that he wasn't meant to go, that he was supposed to remain safely behind while others handled the risky part.

But Scott was trying to make eye contact, and Virgil nodding his head, just out of their father's view. Apparently, they wanted him along… which meant that he ought to reply.

"Yeah... Yes, sir. Shadowbot is more likely to function properly if I'm there to make any necessary corrections. It's, um… still in the beta-testing phase."

"Right," Jeff responded, trying on a brief, tired smile. "Why don't you ride along then? Stick close to Brains. Don't do a thing without his permission, or Scott's. They'll keep you on the straight and narrow."

And then, to all three,

"Go ahead, boys. I'll contact WorldGov and let them know who we are, and what we've got in mind. God speed."

…Which was how they came to be back in the cockpit of Rescue… now '_Thunderbird'_ … 2, poised for launch at the business end of her cliff-side runway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Antarctica, on ice that heaped and slumped beneath them like something alive-_

There were five dome tents, bright orange and braced with special alloys, each about fifty feet in diameter. They'd been fastened to the ice with long, heated stakes by men and women acting in terrible haste, for extra time outside meant death. This was hypothermia so deep and intense that its victims lost sensation, will and consciousness in less than fifteen minutes. So, with no margin at all for mistakes or second guesses, the Pole crew set up their shelters.

There were twenty-three people huddled inside each dome, with chemical heating packs, heavy clothing and twenty-two neighbors for warmth; a small comm unit for hope. Not that it was really possible to hear.

Heavy tent cloth, woven of carbon nanotubes and insulated with NASA technology, barely kept back the cold. It juddered and snapped around them like a windsock; quivering, blowing in and sucking back out again as though the entire shelter were gasping for breath.

Shifting ice worked at the tent stakes, bending some nearly double, pushing the others entirely out of their holes. After perhaps an hour of this, alternately shoved and dragged at by screaming winds and flexing ice, one of the shelters collapsed.

At first, no one panicked. Fred Darson took firm hold of his daughter's parka, defending her with his own body as orange cloth and metal poles thundered down upon them from all sides. Doctor Charlton Walker was near, so Fred seized him, as well.

"Sarah! Charlie! _Hold_ _tight_…!"

He shouted over a ferocious din of snapping poles, of flapping cloth and cracking ice, hoping against sense and logic to be heard. Then, sickeningly, the tangled mass of tent, equipment and people began lurching downward. Slipping.

_'Crevasse,'_ Darson thought wildly, just before something struck him.


	26. 26: Go For Launch

Right, then; next part...

**26: Go For Launch**

_Tracy Island, Thunderbird 2-_

The giant craft roared to life in her hangar, shaking its reinforced walls like a missile its silo. Her main engines were enormously powerful; strong enough, almost, to put her in orbit.

Catching the deep, thrumming music of her engines, the rock walls resonated like a tuning fork and sang it right back. Tiny maintenance robots scurried for cover. Warning lights flashed and klaxons sounded, advising human onlookers to vacate, as well.

A hundred feet ahead of her blunt nose, a huge hangar door ground open, sliding up and into the rocks above. As it rose, a tiny sliver of sunlight broadened to reveal sea and sky, tossing palm trees… and a very short runway.

"Hey," Virgil called to his brothers as he disengaged the Bird's wheel brakes, "remember when we looked down from that balcony, and couldn't figure out what the cliff-strip was for?" _Seemed like forever ago._

Scott grunted back from the copilot's seat, only half listening. Hackenbacker had prepared a procedural checklist for their first actual mission… a combination of simulations 54 , 28 and 67… and he felt obliged to at least look them over. Very detailed, they were, with lots of red-lined "don'ts". Probably not much use in the field, but you had to give the guy credit for trying. Right?

(Brains wasn't there to thank in person. Instead, he was back in the rear crew cabin, wolfing Dramamine and reminding himself that he'd _volunteered_ for this.)

Virgil turned his attention back to the controls, glorying in the noise and thunder of the cargolifter; the strength of her. A nudge to the throttle sent her rumbling slowly forward, on wheels taller than three men standing upon each other's shoulders. The runway crunched and settled beneath her as Thunderbird 2 emerged from her lair. First the great nose, then a curving band of windows, the stubby wings and that tall, double tail poured from her hangar and into the tropical sunshine.

Panicked birds took to the air in hordes, startled by the sudden collapse of a palm tree grove and the noise of the cargolifter's titanically revving engines. Virgil throttled up another notch or so, turning her bellow into a hoarse, bird-of-prey scream.

Green hills and false, fallen palm trees slipped past. The cliff receded behind them, its door already closing. She'd picked up speed, but halted finally at a white line painted across the tarmac. Once she'd come to a full stop, a giant blast shield rose into place behind her. Then, a set of mighty clamps took hold of her wheels, locking them onto the runway.

Scott had been communicating with their father, who sat watching his sons' progress from the office comm screen. At Jeff Tracy's word, they were clear to initiate Thunderbird 2's launch sequence. Better yet, a quick nod from John confirmed that their flight path would be covered, all the way from base to the Pole, by Shadowbot. So far, so good.

Turning from John back to Virgil, Scott said,

"Ready?"

His younger brother was in a rare mood; fiercely happy enough to quote his namesake, the Mercury astronaut Gus Grissom:

"F kin'-A, Bubba!"

Ordinarily, Scott would have laughed. They were on vox, though, and hearable. Frowning, he tapped the instrument panel.

"Live mike, Virge." (Meaning that dad, or even grandma and TinTin, might be listening in.)

Virgil considered a moment. Then, smiling, he thought up a gentler euphemism.

"F-A-B," he quipped, brown eyes filled with momentary, boyish fun.

Yeah, they were headed straight for trouble, putting their father's vision to its first real test, but they were three young men on a mission, equipped with the world's most powerful machines and computers. All that Scott and Virgil saw was duty, adventure and a chance to do good. (John saw other things, as well, but he'd always been different.)

Amused by the acronym, Scott repeated,

"F-A-B," and then, "Hit it, Virge."

His younger brother flipped a switch on the instrument panel, and all at once the short runway began to slant upward, forming a launch ramp. Raised by enormous hydraulic pistons, the ramp lifted Thunderbird 2's nose about 30 degrees above the horizontal. Her engines died back to a grumble, their noise and vibration replaced by the smooth hum of the ramp mechanism.

Virgil squinted through the main viewport, watching tarmac, grass and ocean slip from sight. When the viewport held nothing but gem-like sky and drifting clouds, he called in to Island Base, saying,

"Okay; good to go, Dad."

The comm crackled back,

"Nominal on this end, as well, Son. You're cleared for launch."

Pulse racing like a hotrod at a red light, Virgil double-clicked the comm button, and then throttled up. The prisoning wheel clamps fell away. Thunderbird 2's engines hit full power, their roar like surging magma. Like an earthquake. Charging up that steeply canted ramp, Thunderbird 2 sprang into the air; beautifully, incongruously aloft.

Up and out, and straight on till Christchurch…

…and Granddad, Virgil knew, would have loved this monster, despite the beating she gave to pilot and crew.

They were smashed into their seats by her rocketing acceleration (except for John, who got himself pressed into the straps and armrest because of the direction his seat faced). Fighting for breath, eyes on the instruments and computer screen, they endured two minute's worth of savage g-forces. Then, at 40,000 feet, Virgil leveled her off and banked south. Immediately, the crushing eased, leaving them green across the board, and well on their way.


	27. 27: Ice Storm

My father-in-law was a winter-over at McMurdo Station; part of Operation Deep Freeze. Thank you for the reviews, Boleyn, Sam, ED, Cath and Ms. Hobgoblin. Third edit.

**27: Ice Storm**

_Antarctica-_

Inside the collapsed tent was a chaos of flailing limbs, shattered equipment and whipping, stabbing poles. Fred Darson, half-blinded and stunned by tumbling debris, somehow managed to maintain his grip on young Sarah.

As the ice sheet thundered toward the Ross Sea, it surged and roared like a forest fire, forming deep pits and crevasses. Their collapsed shelter slid and spun, jerking, and then catching momentarily on some outcrop or spur in the ice.

Someone keyed open the tent's outer door seal, but it gaped along half its length, only. The rest was folded beneath them, and useless. Wind slipped in like an assassin's blade, along with the snow and the bitter, killing cold.

He heard the voices of Charlie Walker and Raytheon engineer Susan Povey counting heads, then calling for everyone to seize a hand, and stay together.

"The comm…" Fred gasped, making certain of his hold on Sarah. She was a college freshman, this year, and the joy of his life. Better still, she'd found their comm unit.

"I've g- got it, Dad," she called out, having almost to scream to be heard. "It broke my glasses!"

"Nice save… p- pretty girl."

He didn't have to see his daughter, to visualize her unruly dark hair and puzzled squint. Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek with stiff lips, taking the little comm box from her shaking hands. Then, by feel and memory, Darson hit the emergency broadcast switch. It wouldn't transmit very far, probably, but might at least reach one of its fellows in a nearby shelter, letting the others know what had happened.

They squirmed out of the tent; rapidly, but in good order. In a glow-stick hung line, holding hands, twenty-three science and military folk fought their way through snow and ice and buffeting wind. Immediately, the cold clamped down with numbing jaws. You could hardly breathe, and barely think. All you managed to do was stumble after the person before you, goggles fogged and caking, boots scrabbling for purchase on a surface that flexed and split like oil on turbulent water.

Up ahead, though, an orange sunburst rose screaming through the sky; someone had fired a flare. Then, another. They twisted, floated and danced, blown this way and that by violent winds, but possibly traceable.

The tug on Darson's hand shifted as the line leaders changed direction. A third flare blossomed, closer still. Somewhere ahead, his colleagues were throwing away every bit of their signaling capacity in order to guide the little group to safety.

Someone behind him stumbled, jerking the entire line to a sudden halt. Almost, Fred lost his grip on Sarah's mittened hand, but hung on because he would willingly have died rather than fail her. His numbed fingers were clamped tight, and he wouldn't… he _would not_… let go.

A fourth booming, orange flare shot into the sky as the line resumed motion. How many could they afford to fire, Darson wondered? How long would they keep trying?

...And how much pressure could the station's reactor endure?


	28. 28: Lost

Edited. Am changing my name to _Can't_ _do_ _the_-Math Girl!

**28: Lost**

Jeff Tracy's conversation with the sub-director of international commerce (the highest official he merited, without invoking the name 'Tracy') was almost comically surreal. For security reasons there were no visuals. His own tones had been electronically distorted, while the sub-director's voice was accented enough to need no further encryption. Over a secure line, they argued back and forth.

"You are _what_? Who? Repeating, please?"

Jeff clutched hard at his temper. Forcing a calm, authoritative manner, he said,

"Once again, this is the head of International Rescue, an apolitical crisis team established to respond swiftly to any major emergency situation, anywhere in the world. For reasons of security, we prefer to remain…"

"What? You are experience political crisis?"

_Dammit!_

"No, Mister… Fryxell, is it…? No, Sir; we don't _cause_ emergencies, we resolve them. At this moment, three of my…er… _teammates…_ are rushing to Antarctica to evacuate the South Pole crew and deal with the station's reactor. So, if you'll just inform your…"

"You wish evacuation? From where is your commercial flight emergency being, Sir?"

…And so forth. Eventually, (frustrated to the point of reaching through that comm line and strangling certain witless sub-directors) Jeff gave up and ended the call.

Instant, sight-unseen cooperation was probably too much to expect, at this point. Hopefully, a successful South Pole evacuation would earn them a reputation... or at least a contact person higher up the beauracratic food chain than _Fryxell_.

Jeff grunted morosely. He'd almost forgotten what a pain in the ass it was, trying to get things accomplished without the lubricating grease of wealth, influence and power. Maybe there was someone else he could call…?

Just as he was pulling up a list of his WorldGov contacts, someone entered the office. Jeff swiveled his chair a bit, shooting a quick glance at the open door.

"Jeffery Connal," his mother snapped, glaring at him through bottle-thick lenses, "I hope like _hell_ you know what you're doin'!"

At nearly the same time, a smallish red button on his desk comm lit up. Leisha Bonaventure, with further news of the European 'situation'. _Perfect._ Wonderful...

Jeff rose at the old woman's entrance, respectful even when rushed.

"Mother, I appreciate your concern, but this isn't the time… and _yes,_ I know what I'm doing. More importantly, so do _they_. Scott is former military; a fighter pilot. For him, simple rescue missions are actually _less_ hazardous than what he was doing before."

Victoria tried to interrupt, but Jeff pretended not to notice, saying,

"Virgil's a quick learner, and his simulations have improved a hundred and ten percent, lately. He can _do_ this, and do it well. John…"

Jeff Tracy shrugged, and then shook his grey head.

"…I don't know, Mother. I've given up trying to figure out what makes him tick. You and Lucy were the only ones who ever got anything useful out of that little…"

Victoria cut him off with a sudden sharp gesture. She'd come further into the room by now, maneuvering cautiously around all that carelessly strewn packing material.

"He ain't that hard to figure out, Jeffrey. Not if you spend some time at it. 'Cause the funny thing is, John Matthew thinks like you do. He wants money and he wants freedom to do things his own damn way, every time. Want to know what makes him tick...? Go look at a mirror."

The light was still flashing. Too urgent a matter for Leisha to consider leaving a message, evidently... and he _had_ to pick up that line!

"Mother, you have a definite point; one that I'll take time to consider, very soon. I have urgent business to attend to at the moment, though. So… why don't we discuss this tomorrow? At lunch, say?"

It was a dismissal, and she knew it. Wouldn't accept what she'd been handed, though. …Or leave. Not yet.

"I mighta made some mistakes raisin' you, Jeffery, and I'm sorry… tryin' to harden up after losin' your sisters, I guess… but that don't mean you've gotta repeat _every_ _damn_ _one_ _of_ '_em_ with your own boys. Try bein' a father, sometime, 'stead of a trail boss, Jeffrey. Give 'em a little trust and respect and even John Matthew could surprise you."

But her son was more interested in his desk top than in what she had to say. Shoulders slumping, Victoria sighed.

"I ain't gettin' through, Jeffrey, and I'm too old and tired to keep wastin' my breath… but I hope for them boys' sake that you turn out to be right. I surely do hope so."

Her son gave the old woman a single, vague nod.

"Absolutely. It's a date, then. Tomorrow, at lunch."

Jeff was too preoccupied with comm and mission board to see his mother go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Antarctica-_

Guided by ribbons of twisting flame, they stumbled through freezing, rumbling whiteness. Maybe the flares were getting closer; Darson couldn't tell. What was certain was that they hadn't much time. He'd already lost the sensation in his feet and legs, and lurched along like a zombie on half-frozen limbs that couldn't even feel the ground. Worse, he was becoming sleepy; a very bad sign.

Ahead of him, the line seemed to pause, shifting about on the heaving ice sheet. They'd encountered something? No way to tell, for he couldn't really see. Only the greenish blur of Charlie's glow stick and the wind-blown remnants of signal flares stood out from that shrieking white background. Everything else was frigidly, homicidally blank. Snow blew sideways, up and around, pushing and sawing at him from all angles; the tiny, abrasive crystals froze onto his face mask, goggles and beard like rooftop icicles, cutting off breath.

Then his hand was tugged, so he started walking again, literally forcing himself to move. A lurching step… two… and something materialized from the fanged and swirling snow; something bright orange that shuddered and rattled like a hurricane flag.

Too cold to realize what he was seeing, Fred Darson actually stumbled through the shelter's opening before grasping that he'd made it to safety. That they were… _Wait._

Charlie and Susan were crouched on the dome tent's floor, being heaped with blankets and force-fed warm drinks by a postal clerk and snow plow operator (Katrina and Ahmet; good people). Others huddled closer about the space heater in parkas and blankets of their own, making room for new refugees. There were cries of relief and welcome, half obscured by the constant loud flapping of tent cloth; the creak and snap of ice.

Captain Chen hauled Fred and his daughter further within, handing them over to Kyle and Forrester for rapid warming. It would have been wonderful to relax, to rest there in orange half-light, surrounded by shuddering cloth and the smell of warm coffee. Safe, with his daughter and rescued colleagues.

…But Darson wrenched himself free. Squinting hard, he began obsessively counting heads.

Charlie, Susan, himself, Sarah, Aleksi, Tanner, Dr. Floyd, Mike, Jayna… and Gregory. What about everyone else? _Where were the others?_

Twenty-three people had set off from the fallen shelter. Ten were here. This meant that thirteen others… thirteen friends and coworkers… were still outside.

Darson pushed away the fragrant coffee cup that Kyle Hanson had offered him. His face was beginning to warm, and stung all over like someone had taken a belt sander to him, but Fred ignored it. Bracing himself upon the writhing floor, he seized Captain Chen and croaked,

"Still thirteen outside, Jimmy. Give… give me flare gun… rope. I'll…"

James Chen was a naval supply officer. His assistant, Lieutenant Danvers, was out there somewhere, clinging to twelve other people just as lost and alone as he was. But Chen shook his head.

"We _can't_, Fred," the captain told Darson, voice breaking on the icy words. "We're down to our last flare, and if you go out there again, you'll die."

Jerry Wilkins had stepped past Sarah, was struggling to refasten the shelter's inner seal. A surge of wild rejection shot through Fred Darson like that final signal flare, and he attempted to push past Chen

"Twenty feet… of rope. Just twenty feet, and a chip sensor. Let me sweep an arc, Jimmy, please. For the love of God, _please._ They could be just outside…too cold to move."

And there was so little time.


	29. 29: Above and Beyond

Edited.

**29: Above and Beyond**

_Antarctica_-

Sarah Darson would have gone, too, if her father and Charlie Walker had allowed it. Certainly, she wanted to help, and was in better shape to do so than the last four people who'd stumbled into the shelter; especially Mike Wilson, who was just now warmed enough to realize he'd lost the rest of their party. ...That he'd let them go.

Well, maybe they were all going to die. Maybe going out to wrestle a lost friend back into shelter for a few extra minutes of life was stupid… but maybe it's also what made them human. Anyway, she'd have gone if she could have.

Instead, Sarah watched the search party's preparations over a cup of hot coffee, sitting next to dark-eyed Ahmet (who she had sort of a crush on) and listening to her salvaged MP3 player. (Thinking of her, he'd brought it along.)

The tent cloth fluttered and the ice beneath them creaked, and all she did was get to her feet to give her father's whiskered cheek a kiss as he went to the door. She wanted to say, _'Be careful, Dad,'_ but it was hard to speak, all of a sudden. He understood, though.

Sarah stepped aside to make room for Susan Povey, who worked for Raytheon and had bright red hair that looked brownish-drab in the orange cocoon of their shelter.

"Charlie," Susan began, raising her voice over that lost and crying wind, "If the ice sheet destroys our reactor and gets to that rod, we're sunk. We'll have a massive radioactive steam explosion on our hands, on top of everything else. _What about the reactor, Charlie?"_

Walker spread his gloved hands.

"Sue, we've coffined the rod in cement, and the reactor casing is as strong as modern engineering can make it. Just… keep trying the comm, and make sure that anyone foolish enough to fly in after us knows the risks. Other than that, stay in touch with the other shelters, and if anything goes wrong out there…" (He jerked his red-hatted head toward the door.) "…You're in charge."

Lean, cautious, Charlton Walker was a man not prone to excessive displays of emotion. He and Sue Povey shook hands and then, like Fred Darson and Jimmy Chen, he donned face mask and goggles, stuffed chemical heating packs into his clothing, and raised his parka hood. After that, with rope in hand, it was out to the ice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

The engines droned. Deck and bulkheads vibrated, and golden light streamed into the cockpit through that long bank of curving windows. At 40,000 feet, Thunderbird 2 was above most commercial airline traffic, but Virgil took care to avoid notice (and collisions) anyhow.

Once away from the island, he called in to Christchurch tower, on the theory that a radar- and sensor-negative aircraft could still be crashed into. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to give Christchurch a satisfactory make or tail number, so they considered the call an elaborate hoax.

"Well… I _tried,"_ Virgil muttered.

Scott was still occupied with 'battle plans', so he craned his tousled brown head over one shoulder to call,

"Hey, John?"

"Yeah,"

His older brother was very quiet (nothing new, there) but he was also moving oddly, as though he had to talk himself through straightening up to turn away from his computer screen. Virgil had played football… been strapped up and soaked in liniment… long enough to recognize signs of injury. In somewhat lower tones, he asked John,

"What'd you do? Crack a rib?"

(The takeoff _had_ been a little rough, and John's quick-rigged seat faced sideways.)

His older brother's face was nearly as pale as his hair, but all he said was,

"No. I'm good. What do you need, Virgil?"

_Okay… not in the mood to talk about himself. Again, or ever._

So,

"We're approaching New Zealand airspace, and the likelihood of visual contact's off the scale, even at this altitude. Can you find some way to let the Royal NZ Air Force know we're just passing through? I'd sort of hate to get shot down on my very first mission of mercy."

John considered. Actually, he suspected that a few of his left-side ribs were broken, not cracked, but there was no sense whining about it to Virgil. Too much else to do.

Giving the young pilot a quick nod, he drafted and sent a very brief message:

_'Official notice: International Rescue craft 2 is now overflying your airspace. International Rescue is a non-partisan emergency services group intent on rendering aid and relief to the South Pole Station. Please avoid flight path.'_

…After which he provided their general speed and heading, while further advising Virgil to climb to 50,000 feet, for safety's sake.

"There," John told him, once the job was done. "We've knocked politely. If Devonport scrambles any fighters, I'll let you know. In the meantime, my recommendations are: '_south'_, '_edge_ _of_ _space'_ and '_in_ _a_ _quick_ _damn_ _hurry'_."

Still proud of his acronym (and concerned about potential listening ears), Virgil replied,

"F-A-B," which got a halfway smile out of John.

"Whatever," his brother responded, turning back to the securely-mounted laptop.

All the way to New Zealand, the weather remained clear, if gusty and rather cool. The north and south islands passed away beneath them, emerald green and trailing long, filmy veils of white cloud. From this height, they looked like the fancy enamel work on a royal blue Faberge egg.

Virgil would have liked to call someone's attention to their heart-stopping beauty, but Scott was busy patching the government headquarters at Wellington through to dad, and John was back to programming.

_(A guidance-scrambling signal to be broadcast from each cell-network satellite in the immediate vicinity… but only if absolutely necessary. John wasn't about to throw the first pitch, but he certainly intended to win the game.)_

Brains was below, in the main hold, working on his 'dark matter radiation shield'… which hopefully worked better than it sounded.

South of New Zealand, weather conditions grew rapidly worse. A sharp westerly gusted to life, tracing the path of the vicious Antarctic Circumpolar Current. Snow clouds mounded up from ocean to stratosphere, purple and swollen as a bruise. There was a clear, knife's edge divide. On the one side, calm, sunny weather and gently rumpled seas. On the other, sheer, frozen hell.

Thunderbird 2 shot toward that roiling-dark cloud wall like the stone from David's sling. Cutting on her running lights, Virgil called out,

"Everyone strap in. This could get ugly."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Antarctica-_

The chip sensor served to locate anyone who'd wandered out of sight or hail of the Station. Attuned to personal ID frequencies, it had more then once led rescue parties to a stranded snowmobiler or wandering researcher… but the outdoor conditions this day were simply too fierce for the sensor's electronics. It only worked (and then, barely) inside the shelter.

Fred, Charlton and Jimmy glanced at the unit's locator screen, fixed in their minds the general location of Danvers' ID chip, then plunged from the dome-tent and into the screaming maelstrom.

Their line was clipped to a bracket on the shelter's curving wall, located by feel. Clipping leads and harnesses to it, the three men leaned into a gale as sharply serrated and noisy as a bone saw, and then started walking. The line played slowly out behind them; sole link to warmth and life and safety.

They had a time limit of fifteen minutes, the maximum exposure to conditions like these that would allow them still to lead… or drag… another person. Fred swept an arm around himself in hopes of encountering a crouched or resting other. Not very often, though; all that additional surface area gave the wind too much to seize and shake, like a leopard seal with a captured penguin.

In the lead, Jimmy Chen probed at the ground before him with a sharpened staff. Twice, his staff's business end broke through a crust of snow and into gaping nothingness, leaving him teetering on a slippery edge. Captain Chen's reactions were slowed by cold and exhaustion. The line, with the pulling force of Fred and Charlie behind it, was all that prevented him from plunging down the black throat of a hidden crevasse. There, he'd have died, shattered and frozen, swept far beyond help or recovery by rushing floodwater. But each time, Charlton and Fred leaned backward and dug their boots into the ice, halting his plunge. Chen had a great deal to be thankful for… if they actually lived long enough for any of this to matter.

They almost missed the other party. Confused by the whiteout, with no flares to follow, Danvers had been lurching about in a big circle, drawing the others in his wake. Fred's arm, in one of those rare, desperate arcs, brushed Danvers' parka sleeve.

His fingers were too stiff and cold to feel the contact, but his arm was blocked, actually rebounding a little, and _this_ he detected. In all the disorienting whiteness, this shifting ice and feral wind, he could make no other signal than a tug upon the line, while simultaneously stumbling toward the contact. Responding to the tug, Chen and Walker felt around themselves, peering through useless goggles at milky-swirling snow. Arms groping, throats too seared with coughing to shout, they encountered the yielding texture of heavy cloth and half-frozen people; of a missing party, somehow safely found.


	30. 30: Ice Fall

Home again, so now I can print. Significant geographical edits have begun. Thanks, Ms. Hobgoblin, Cath, Sam1 and Tikatu, for the kind reviews. They are most valued.

**30: Ice Fall**

_Thunderbird 2-_

They were warned by New Zealand and WorldGov authorities to stay away. Naturally, they didn't listen, for stubbornness ran hard through their family, and always had.

The wind struck well before Thunderbird 2 penetrated that scowling purple cloud wall. Shearing drafts and crosswinds of every strength and description tore, shoved and plucked at the cargolifter, nearly ripping the yoke from Virgil's clenched and sweating hands.

He hunched forward in his seat, fighting the big girl's tendency to yaw; one eye on his instruments, the other on that seething-dark barrier.

_"Hang on!"_

Cyclonic clouds like streaming ink coiled and tendriled, swallowing the aircraft whole. Immediately, the bottom dropped out of the sky like a high altitude trap door. Thunderbird 2 plunged five hundred feet in less than two minutes, her altimeter flashing far too swiftly to read.

All at once weightless, her pilot and crew floated clear of their seats; clutching at armrests, pressed tight against nylon seat straps. Fighting back nausea, Virgil throttled up.

2's engines bellowed like JATO rockets. Briefly, she nosed up and began climbing again, then encountered a ferocious cross wind, savage as a right hook.

Thunderbird 2 slewed wildly to port. Her engines stalled, falling terribly, suddenly quiet as she entered a flat spin.

_"Scott!" _Virgil called aloud, needing his copilot's help.

"Got it, Virge. John… _brace."_

Okay, he was trying… but his stomach had turned itself inside out, and the damn seat straps burned like lines of fire against those broken ribs.

_(Shit… shit… shit!)_

The cockpit screamed with alarms and warning lights, seeming very much louder than they'd simulated. Once again, Thunderbird 2 dropped like a thousand-ton rock, spiraling for the icepack below.

In the rear crew cabin, Hackenbacker was violently ill. The noxious stuff hung in the air by his face for an instant, then shot away, splattering hard against bulkheads and seat covers. Up front, Scott repeatedly mashed the engine restart switch. Each time, fuel blasted through her enormous combustion chambers, sparked and caught…

_Whump!_

…and then died again; brief thunder replaced by a shrill, wavering whine. This, too, was cut off; drowned by shrieking wind and shuddering metal. Despite everything Scott tried, she wouldn't start. Seemingly _couldn't._

So, taking hold of the steering yoke, Scott added his muscle to Virgil's, forcing the Bird to nose over. Together, they managed a slight bank, getting some airflow, at last, over wings and intakes.

She tilted to starboard and began to turn, sending everything not tightly secured bouncing, sliding and flying across the cockpit. Scott, Virgil and John were pelted with loose items, but soon had more serious things to worry about. Thunderbird 2 had blundered into a clattering storm of fist-sized hail. Like bullets, the hail stones smashed upon her fuselage and exploded to powder against her windows, cracking the heavy Plexiglas. It was exactly like being trapped in a rolling, bouncing oil drum with a double handful of broken rocks and bottle caps; noisy and painful.

Waked to life by streaming damage reports, several repair bots attempted to creep from their bays, only to be hurled away by wind and battering ice. Dented and holed as it was, the hull could not be repaired in mid-flight. Not in these conditions.

But air had begun flowing in the right direction. One more desperate button press and her engines roared to life, pulling Thunderbird 2 out of her plunge and free of the crushing hail. A few seconds later, Virgil had her back under control.

"Wow," was all that he could say aloud.

"Damn skippy," Scott muttered. He'd endured nothing this violent that hadn't resulted in ejection. At this point, low-altitude strafing runs seemed safer.

Added John, flinching just a little when a shift of position brought fresh bruises in contact with his seat straps,

"Further recommendation, Virgil: no more of _that_."

"Yeah... sure, John. I'll, um... add it to my "to-don't" list."

But his brother wasn't the only one with advice. Their father soon called in from the island, worried about the telemetry he was getting from 2's main computer.

"No, sir," Scott responded, belying the way his arms and shoulders ached from fighting the yoke; covering nausea and fatigue with a confident smile. "It's been a little rough, but nothing we haven't simulated fifty times over. There's no need to turn back."

_Not when there were lives… a mission… at stake._

His gaze and firm voice were steady enough (even through all the continued pounding) to relieve Jeff's concern. Most of it, anyhow. Just before foul weather broke the signal up, their father said,

"I leave the decision… your hands, Sc… on you, Son. On all of… -acy, out."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Antarctica-_

Lurching forward another two-hundred yards, the unstable ice cracked suddenly, with a noise like cannon fire. A long, dark crevasse appeared. Gaping jaggedly wide, with pillars and dagger-like shards crashing away from its edges, the fissure shot through a cluster of snow-bound dome shelters, swallowing one whole. Nor did it stop there. Before the lost ones had fallen utterly silent, the crevasse forked toward the ruined South Pole Station, and its small, cement-coffined reactor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Nearly an hour's flight later, battered and shaken, they crossed from the Ross Sea to the continent. There was no visibility at all, thanks to wind-stirred, howling snow, but somewhere below them lay McMurdo Station, already evacuated by ship. Mount Erebus was beginning to stir, coughing fumes and belching ash, sending probing mudslides toward sea and station.

On the continent, Lakes Vostok and Concordia, with a hundred nameless rivers, had slipped their ancient bonds. Raging floodwaters outraced lumbering ice, cresting to forty feet, but blocked from the buildings and sheds of McMurdo Station by the mountains. From volcanic ash and mudslide, however, there was no defense but flight.

On the flanks of Mount Erebus, the ice melted, exploding to steam and mixing with ash and rock to form a gummy, smothering tide of reeking mud. Roaring swift, consuming-angry, the grey flood swept away the work of decades.

Buildings splintered like dry kindling. Shattered and torn from their foundations, they were hurled tumbling into the frigid sea. Machines, trash, supplies and ice piers vanished beneath the surface, scarcely noticed by the pilot and crew of Thunderbird 2, who still had 850 long, dangerous miles to go.


	31. 31: Up and Out

Thought I'd have this finished prior to the end of Christmas vacation, but the rest is going to have to wait until next week, looks like.

**31: Up and Out**

_Antarctica-_

A fully fueled, ski-equipped C-12, in perfect flying conditions, might reach the pole in two and a quarter hours. Thunderbird 2 was much larger and far more powerful, but the weather she faced was anything but ideal. Battered by blizzard conditions, fighting a tremendous head wind, the International Rescue cargolifter made the trip in just under two.

They weren't making, precisely, for the pole itself; either magnetic or geographic. Instead, using a program that John had written, they keyed in to the ID chip signals of the shattered station's crew. Swept helplessly along with the rumbling ice sheet, the stranded scientists and support personnel had drifted almost a mile from their last, officially recorded position.

…And there weren't a hundred-fifteen of them, either. All that John Tracy could pick up, despite ever-intensifying scans, were the signals of ninety-two functioning chips. Not good… but maybe, he reasoned, there was something wrong with his equipment or methodology. No need yet to assume the worst or alarm the others, who certainly had enough on their minds.

He gave Virgil a fix on the survivors' position, together with a warning. Speaking carefully (because deep breaths hurt), John said,

"The surface is unstable. It's moving, and not just horizontally. The ice is flexing up and down, inches to feet at a time, depending on subsurface heat and terrain conditions. It's more like an aircraft carrier landing than a basic runway, Virgil, so my advice is to come straight down."

Virgil Tracy plucked at his lower lip. Currently, the song running through his head was REM's _"It's the End of the World." _He hadn't simulated many vertical landings, preferring the standard 'long runway' approach… But, Scott had.

"I can take her down for you, Virge," his oldest brother offered. Scott Tracy had a number of small cuts on his face and head from unsecured cockpit debris; he was tired and worried, but very sure of his own abilities, nonetheless. "I've practiced so many damn VTOL approaches that I'm flying them in my sleep."

Virgil nodded, relieved.

"Works for me… and I'm hitting the simulator again, just as soon's we get back. Thanks, Scott."

"No problem. Switching over… now. John, keep those altitude figures coming."

Yes, he had the altimeter to look at… and about 800 other dials, switches and flashing displays… but a steady cadence of numbers in his brother's monotone freed him up to react, descend and just _fly_.

2's engine noise changed, deepening as their thrust was increased and redirected downward. John began reading off figures.

"Okay: 42,815 and dropping. Airspeed 80 knots horizontally, 70 feet per second vertically. 42,710…" And so on.

At 12,000 feet, almost directly over the danger zone, Scott reduced engine power and triggered Thunderbird 2's impellers (like columnar force fields, radiating the pressure of 2's rapid descent over a circle about twenty-five miles in diameter). John was still talking, Virgil attempting to hail the stranded scientists. Several people tried to answer him, including a couple of Navy guys and a NOAA meteorologist, all of them worried about their endangered reactor; but IR had a plan for that, too… so long as Hackenbacker's device worked.

Staying on course was the tough part. Scott brought her down, correcting constantly for buffeting winds and drifting, flexing ice, until he was no more than a hundred feet above the surface. Leaning away from the yoke, he glanced around the warm, red-lit cockpit.

"All right, Virge… she's all yours."

By this time, he had a thudding monster of a headache, and Brains was down in the tractor pod, waiting.

"John, you're with me. Time to get what we came for, and get the hell out of Dodge."

In his head, Scott ran the game plan over and over: Down to the pod and into the tractors. Lower Thunderbird 2 to the surface of the glacier, release pod and extend ramp. Brains, in tractor 1, to advance first; seeking out, neutralizing and extracting the reactor core's fuel bundle. Scott and John next out, in tractor 2, rescuing victims as quickly as possible. Everyone back inside within thirty minutes; up, off and away. Put that way, in calm, bulleted steps, it seemed almost simple.

He had to wait for John, who was moving oddly. As they stepped into the lift, Scott faced his blond shadow of a brother and said,

"I notice you're favoring your left side, John. Break something?"

This was need-to-know information, because if John couldn't pull his weight, they didn't have a mission. Unless…

"No. Well…"

John glanced over, away, and then back again. _Not_ _like_ _his_ _brothers_ _hadn't_ _figured_ _things_ _out_ _on_ _their_ _own_, _anyway_.

The door hissed shut, and the lift began to descend, its drop, noise and vibration lost in Thunderbird 2's overall rumble. He continued.

"… I got beat to crap on take off, but I'm okay. Just a little sore."

"You're _sure?"_ Scott probed. "Because I can switch you out with Virgil, leave you minding the Bird while he and I go after those refugees."

The smart thing to do, certainly… and just what their father would have ordered. But John was sick and damn tired of being sheltered.

"I'm good," he insisted, as the lift thumped to a halt. It hurt to breathe and to move, but not too badly. Not cripplingly.

The door slid open, revealing Dr. Hackenbacker.

"S- Scott… John. If you're, ah… you're _quite_ r- ready?"

He seemed about to explode with impatience, brown hair a tufted mess and glasses askew on his thin face. He'd already donned his polar survival gear, bringing theirs along, too, on a floating grav cart.

"Maybe we ought to have uniforms," Scott suggested, as he and John pulled the heated survival suits and parkas over their street clothes. "Everybody else does. Police… fire/rescue… armed forces… _everyone_."

"Issue f- for another time, Scott," Brains reproved him. "At the, ah… the moment, there are f- far more important matters to, ah… to s- settle. We're agreed on, ah… on thirty minutes?"

Scott nodded.

"Yeah. Fuel bundle and victims, inside and squared away for launch in thirty, tops."

The three of them proceeded from the lift along a high gantry, crossing the echoing tractor pod. Shaped like the inside of a giant Quonset hut, the pod was lit in night-vision red, and rang with mechanized breeps, clangs and thumpings. Thunderbird 2's repair robots were already hard at work, mending her hail and wind damage.

The twin tractors waited side by side on the pod floor, secured with heavy clamps. A ladder extended from the rubberized metal gantry to a boarding hatch on each vehicle. Tractor 1, equipped with Brains' radiation blocker, was first in line.

The engineer shook hands with Scott and John Tracy (frowning slightly at the younger man's poorly disguised physical trauma). Then, after wishing them well, Hackenbacker squared his thin shoulders and climbed down the first ladder. Scott and John walked about twenty feet further along the gantry; their footfalls raising a whispered chorus of echoes. Ladder two was reached just as Virgil's voice, boomingly loud, filled the giant pod.

"Scott, I've established reliable comm with a few of the shelters. They're ready to go at your signal, but kind of confused about who we are. Willing to risk it, though; even the military personnel. So, uh… you guys go on, and be careful out there."

Amplified to something like rock concert levels, Virgil sounded like a junior Zeus... and Scott's headache actually seemed to exceed the boundaries of his skull. There was likely to be aspirin in the tractor's first aid kit, though, and this was _nothing_ compared to what his back had put him through.

John had already started down the ladder, breathing unevenly. Before following, Scott turned to the nearest comm pickup and said,

"Understood, and will do, Virge. Watch yourself. The ice isn't a stable landing pad."

"F-A-B."

Down to the safety-orange snow tractor, then, which was long and lean as a centipede, equipped with heavy wheels, a blade and independently mounted, triangular treads. (One of those ugly/beautiful designs that inspired fanciful nose art and fond nicknames. 'Crawler', maybe.)

Scott slid the last few feet down-ladder, dropping through the hatch and into the tractor's cockpit. John was already belted into the right seat, with comm and scanners running, and engine warming up. Strapping in beside his brother, Scott hit a button on the instrument panel.

"We're in, Virge. Lower away."

His brown-haired brother's response was (thankfully) a great deal quieter, here. As Scott began rifling through his armrest compartments for aspirin, Virgil said,

"Right. Hang on, then."

The overhead hatch irised shut with a sharp click. At the same time, the boarding ladder folded up and out of the way. Of course, they'd simulated all of this before, dozens of times, but reality had a way of surprising you.

Thunderbird 2 touched down upon grinding, crackling ice, her vast weight spread across many acres of surface. Communicated through the metal of her flat belly, the ice sheet's groaning seemed almost hammer-blow loud. Four claw-footed, telescoping legs dropped from her body and then locked in place, taking firm hold on the glacier. Immense motors next grumbled to life; jackng 2's cockpit, main fuselage and tail high into the frigid air. Meter by growling meter, she lifted herself above the glacier, exposing her tractor pod. Smooth as simulation, at first… but they'd reckoned without the wind.

Attacked at once by a hurricane-force blizzard, Thunderbird 2 teetered precariously on those four slender supports. Shoved this way and that, the cargolifter began an ominous, creaking sway, each time seeming closer to toppling over. But Virgil was quick-thinking, as well as determined. He cut on her port and starboard steering rockets, firing them in patterned bursts to hold Thunderbird 2 steady in the teeth of a hundred-mile-an-hour gale.

"Okay, Scott," he called out. "Make it fast. I'm not sure how long she can stay up like this."

The winds were a bear, and the ice as mutinously unstable as magma. But lowering Thunderbird 2, and then lifting her again when the tractors returned, would take time that they just didn't have. Not in conditions like these.

"Roger that, Virge. We're hurrying."

Scott keyed open the pod door. It yawned before them like the mouth of a whale, crashing onto the ice to form a broad ramp. Wind and snow in wild, swirling gusts came blasting through the arched opening, eliminating visibility. The windows might have been white-washed; it was so hard to see. Not even headlights helped.

"John…?"

"Yeah. Got it."

His brother switched on the pod's force shield, then called up a multi-layered, false-color image composed of satellite radar shots, ID chip signals and thermal scans. A few keystrokes later, the blank viewscreen was replaced by a luridly colored landscape of blazing shelters and pressure-ridged ice, with air-traffic-control style numbers representing the trapped victims. Stress patterns in rainbow hues indicated where the slithering glacier was next liable to crack. Scott smiled, briefly. (His headache was fading.)

"Thanks, that ought to do the trick. Has Brains got one of these, too?"

John nodded without looking up. Keying in a few more commands, he said,

"Sort of. On his version, I've supplied the reactor's location… like this."

Another image flashed onto the viewscreen, that of an intensely blue, pulsing reactor core. Alarmingly, the thing appeared to be leaning into the ice at a steep slant, leaking steam and radiation. Scott whistled sharply.

"Hope he manages all right. I don't even like _looking_ at that shit, much less approaching it."

Brains had no such inhibitions. Flashing its lights, Tractor 1 thundered down the ramp ahead of them, exhaust vents glowing like suns in the thermal image overlay. Hackenbacker then cut to the left, his tractor as sinuous-quick as a snake.

Tractor 2 followed after, pouring down the shuddering ramp and into their worst-case scenario given icy flesh and hostile form.


	32. 32: UTurn

Sorry to be so late. Things have gotten a little complex, over here. Thanks, Ms. Hobgoblin and ED for the reviews. Lots of edits made, as time allows.

**32: U-Turn**

_A shelter, one of three-_

The temperature had plunged still further. Meteorologist Elton Caruthers stared, first at his satellite comm unit, and then at the fluttering, snapping tent wall.

"International… _what?"_ He asked, breath misting white in the dim orange air.

"_Rescue_, El." The NASA rep supplied, clutching at a cup of hot broth. "I think they s- said… International Rescue." Her hands were shaking, but more from cold than fear.

Conversation ceased for a time, as the gale, feeling around the base of their tent like a wrestler seeking a hold, briefly lifted one side. Didn't send them flying, though. Not yet. Instead, it shifted force and direction, attacking from a fresh angle. Folk in the shelter dared breathe again, but it was difficult to speak when talon by talon, frigid cold was driving its way into their numbed and sluggish minds.

The astronomer's name was Karen Simenski, and she was huddled, not against Elton, but alongside another friend and colleague, Leanna Pace. Leanna wasn't doing well. Despite the buzzing-red space heater, coffee and close-packed others, she was staring at those rattling orange walls as though they might shred; as though the winds outside were hissing her name.

Karen untucked enough to place a consoling arm around Leanna's bowed shoulders. Both were wearing parkas and thinsulate body suits; neither could seem to stay warm. It was biting-cold, slithery-cold… _kill_ _you_-cold.

" S'okay, Pace," she gasped. "Someone's coming. We're going to make it, I promise. Jus' gotta… got to hang on a little longer."

Their friendship was based on table-tennis, a fascination with quasars, the South Pole and the New England Patriots; on many combined years of work at the Aurora Observatory, over cups of green tea. They'd long since made a pact never to dye their blondish-brown hair, and both were now going as proudly grey as a man.

…And maybe they were going to die together.

In a second, nearby tent, Fred Darson attempted to choke down the sawdust sweetness of a granola bar. His mouth was too dry, though, and he couldn't seem to swallow. Even coffee was giving him trouble. Rather than force it down, Darson set the bar aside. _Try again later, maybe… or give it to Sarah._

"Anything?" he rasped, in the general direction of Charlie, and Captain Chen.

Jimmy had to lean close to hear him, while remaining focused on the glitching satellite comm.

"Could be," Chen replied, beginning to cough. His nose was bleeding, soaking dark red through his woolen face mask. "Some kind of… WorldGov rescue team. Claim ETA at ten… fifteen minutes."

Charlie Walker glanced over. Earlier, he'd shifted a stack of food crates to help pin down the floor of their battered dome tent, and was off to one side a bit. Beneath his own woven ski mask, the man's facial muscles moved. He might have been smiling. Aloud, over screaming wind, groaning ice and rattling fabric, he said,

"Something… to celebrate, eh?"

If they lived so long.

But from the third shelter, there was neither celebration, nor talk. Indeed, no sound to speak of, at all. In shelter three, the batteries to heater and comm had failed, plunging the tent's inhabitants into bitter, immediate cold. Willpower and thought were soon entirely numbed. Like cattle in a blizzard, all they could do was huddle and wait, while probing… questing subtle as mist… death seeped inward.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office; at a paper and coffee cup strewn desk-_

All at once, he was being taken seriously; perhaps a little too much so. NASA, the United States Navy, World Gov and the American President made contact, using the number he'd given to Mr. Fryxell.

NASA was concerned for their scientists… the Navy, its grudgingly admitted-to reactor… WorldGov, their authority… President Cranney, the source of all this superior technology… and Jeff had to deal with, find a way to reassure, each one.

With NASA, he was matter-of-fact, promising only that every effort possible was being made. No false hopes, but NASA was long accustomed to balancing risks against shrinking options; the Director offered cooperation, even to the point of sharing satellite imagery (which John had already accessed, anyhow, in the process of seizing bandwidth).

The Naval officer Jeff spoke with was far more truculent, demanding to know just what the hell a bunch of unlicensed civilians meant to do with a US Navy reactor core.

"That's highly dangerous, _extremely_ radioactive stuff… '_Sir'_. And it's US government property. Not only are you damn fools if you touch it, you're thieves, and possible terrorists, as well. Listen to me, whoever you are, and write this down for goddam future reference, at your trial… stay the hell away from my reactor! _Personnel_, yes. If you think you can help those people, you're more than welcome to try. Hell ain't half-full, yet… but molest or attempt to transport radioactive government materials, and you're under arrest the _moment_ you touch down, _anywhere_ in the world. Clear?"

The officer wore dress whites, and sported a salt-and-pepper crew cut that might have been executed with computer-guided lasers. His compressed lips and narrowed blue eyes didn't just warn. They _promised_.

… But the policy makers in Congress and the Joint Chiefs weren't the ones in danger from leaking radiation, were they?

"Admiral," Jeff began, his tone hardening as slumping exhaustion vanished suddenly from stance and gaze. His image was digitally altered, but thirty years of command presence leaked through, anyhow. "…Our intentions are to save lives and to safeguard the environment and creatures of the Antarctic. We have _no_ intention of turning your fuel rods into a dirty bomb, or selling them on the black market."

No intention of getting caught, either. Once he and Admiral Cunningham had flung their last barbs, Jeff sent a private, coded message to John.

_"Son, the gloves are off. Do whatever it takes, short of violence, to maintain secrecy. We've been threatened with immediate arrest over the 'package'. Under no circumstances is this to be permitted. Inform your brothers, and do your job. Tracy, out."_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2, the rumbling, garnet cockpit-_

She moved in a series of undulating bursts, engines throbbing subliminal-deep. Over crags, pressure ridges and narrow cracks she flowed, churning snow and splintered ice high into the shrieking, white sky. Rather alarmingly, the low-slung vehicle tipped often from side to side, able to swarm along at a 45 degree angle without losing her clawed grip. Made for an extremely jolting, very intense ride.

Scott steered by the overlay his brother had projected onto their main viewscreen, heading for the clustered white RFID signals that marked the first dome shelter, and accepting John's suggestions with occasional, distracted nods.

The satellite comm beeped to life. Dad, apparently.

In a jet fighter, you saw and processed a thousand things at once, without allowing any one of them to hijack your complete attention. You managed instruments, targeting, comm, incoming hostiles and wingmen, airspeed, direction and altitude… your heads-up displays and target-lock indicator… all while flying evasive, high speed maneuvers over enemy territory, and fighting to stay alive. A lot to handle, but you very soon learned what to filter out, or you died.

Right now, Scott was focused mainly on his viewscreen range finder, the shifting terrain, and John's dry, quiet voice. He was less than twelve yards from the first shelter, when his younger brother said,

"Scott, we may run into trouble with the US Navy, but I've got a procedure in place for that. Um… also, you need to bypass this target, for now. Increase speed to thirty-five miles per hour and proceed like hell to shelter 3."

That drew his startled attention.

"Why? We're almost at pick-up range, and the people inside are ready to go. What's the point of switching tactics, now?"

John shook his head, blond hair brushing at the fibers and lining of his parka hood with a faint scraping noise. Reaching forward very gingerly (Scott was certain, now, that he'd broken a few ribs) he indicated the third tent's pale thermal image and flickering ID signals.

"Because their heat signature's fading, Scott. The power's out; it has to be. So, we either get there within the next five minutes, or scratch twenty-three people off the shopping list. You decide."

_Right._ Scott gunned the tractor's engine, and changed direction, hard.

"Let everyone know what's going on, and start suiting up, John. We'll be there in two-and-a-half minutes."

It was closer to four, actually.


	33. 33: Race

Thanks, all. Freshly edited to better match 35.

**33: Race**

_Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil and his aircraft hung in the midst of a fierce-white world, like figures suspended in a badly shaken snow globe… if the whole thing had been rattling along on a squealing-rough conveyor belt, that is. Beset from all sides at once, wind coming at her with a saw-toothed ferocity that no simulator could equal… Thunderbird 2 was nearly swatted to the ice a dozen times.

Her tall support legs and battered fuselage creaked, popped and moaned. Steering rockets hissed and thundered, time and again correcting the giant cargolifter's dangerous sway. She bobbed like a songbird perched at the tip of a long reed, or a hawk on a swaying branch.

Virgil's mouth was dry. He'd have sacrificed major body parts for a cigarette, but dared not take his hands from yoke and rocket controls to fumble around for a light. Instead, alone in the dim red cockpit, he fought to keep his Bird upright, and worried about his brothers.

Clicking the mike button for attention, the handsome, brown-haired young man said,

"Guys, no pressure, or anything… but we really need to hurry this up."

The winds were getting stronger, drawing chaos and turbulent power from the on-going eruption of distant Mount Erebus.

"_Roger_ _that_, _Virge_," Scott responded, sounding dim and twilit far. _"We're moving as fast as we can. Take off if you have to. We can survive the blow for awhile in these tractors, once the victims are aboard, but we… (Unintelligible)…ford to lose…2. You copy?"_

"Yeah. Got it, and will do, Scott. I'll keep you posted."

He wanted this to be over. He wanted to be touching down in Christchurch with a hold full of rescued victims; tired, safe and successful. Which… right now seemed kind of iffy.

_'Please,'_ he thought, _'please don't let me screw this up. Don't let me let them down.'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 1, out on the ice-_

Doctor Hackenbacker had designed and programmed the thing, with John Tracy's able assistance; you'd have thought he could drive it. Instead, the tractor rumbled along in fits and starts on big tires and triangular, biting treads, sometimes slipping out of gear, or halfway into a deep, snowy pitfall. Very much, it was difficult to drive while plotting a sane path through that maze of crags and deepening cracks.

John continued to send him telemetry, including false-color images of the ice, showing where it was most stressed, and likely to shatter. Amid all that twining color, the endangered reactor stood out like a wobbling pulsar.

At Princeton, Hackenbacker had driven but rarely, spending most of his time at the Institute for Advanced Study and venturing forth in his ancient blue Toyota Scion only for books and computer parts.

…Not that even NASCAR driving experience would have prepared him for _this_.

He was close to the coffined reactor now, urging his tractor over a field of tall, jagged pressure ridges. He received Virgil Tracy's message and clicked his mike in response, while nudging the accelerator pedal for just enough speed to take on a 12-foot wall of ice.

The tractor's engine muttered and growled. Clawed treads bit into the nearly vertical surface, began to pull the vehicle up and over the ridge, then lost their grip.

Hackenbacker cursed, hit the accelerator pedal again, but only succeeded in losing more ground. The tractor slid backward in clattering, ice-shredding slow motion, while up ahead the glacier continued gnawing at the South Pole Station and its vulnerable reactor core.

Brains pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a quick, aggressive finger-jab. Adjusting the treads' bite angle, blue eyes squinted and face grim, the engineer made ready to try again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2, by an alarmingly quiet dome tent-_

Their vehicle had ground to a halt, John Tracy was already suited up and harnessed, his older brother Scott unstrapping hurriedly to do the same. Superficially, they did not much resemble one another, John being taller, very slender, and blond. Scott was better muscled and perhaps an inch or two shorter. His hair was nearly black, but his eyes (like John's) were a vivid, startling blue-violet. Scott's methods were direct, whereas John tended toward shadows and subterfuge, but they complemented one another very well, a fact which Scott hadn't fully appreciated until just now.

He'd have said something about it, or mentioned those sore (broken?) ribs, but his younger brother's face was composed into an ice-pale, _'shut the hell up; nothing hurts,'_ mask. Anyhow, time was growing short.

With locators, harnesses, med-kits, goggles, ice poles and full arctic survival suits, Scott and his brother entered the tractor's small airlock (located well aft of the driver's compartment). If they'd had more personnel, someone would have remained aboard to mind the vehicle, as Virgil was doing with Thunderbird 2. Not possible here, though; not until dad recruited a few dozen new members.

As the inner hatch-field hissed shut, Scott noticed that his brother's nylon harness wasn't properly fastened. Too loose.

"John," he said, sounding weirdly flat through his woven face mask, "I'm tightening your harness up. If that thing slips off out there and you lose your grip on the tether, you're screwed."

John replied with a brief nod. Maybe his left side hurt too much to apply direct pressure to, or maybe he just couldn't lift his arm out of the way; whatever the reason, the bright yellow harness hung limp rather than fitting snuggly about shoulders, sides and crotch. Awkwardly, for heavily gloved hands didn't perform fine manipulations very well, Scott reached over and got the thing ratcheted tighter.

John made a slight noise… something of a clenched-jaw grunt… but said only,

"_Thanks_."

It was too late to wonder if he was in any shape to handle a polar rescue mission. At this point, they had no choice but to hope for the best, and go on.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

There was nothing else he could do. Even with the impellers spreading her weight across many acres, Thunderbird 2's mass was deforming the ice, carving a deep bowl and several long cracks. He had to get her back in the air again, before the glacier swallowed her up or those web-like cracks endangered the others. Hitting the comm, he said,

"Scott… Dad: I'm going to have to pick up the pod and lift off for awhile. I'll circle at a safe altitude, but close enough for a quick return. Just shoot me a signal when you start back."

Was he doing the right thing?

At first, the only response was static, but then his father got through (Scott being, he guessed, too busy to answer).

_"Understood, Son. Keep Rescue 2 out of trouble, at all costs. Your brother…"_

(Speaking in that particular tone of voice, he could only mean John.)

_"…indicates that Mount Erebus appears to be settling down a little. Fewer seismic events, apparently."_

"Yes, Sir," Virgil replied, initiating the pod retrieval sequence. Thunderbird 2 shuddered, and then began ponderously lowering herself, hammered by crosswinds and flying ice. The motors that powered her legs now retracted them, letting 2's open fuselage settle back toward the waiting pod.

"And tell John I said thanks for the valuable heads-up."

(Wasn't sure why he decided to do that, except that it might tickle John to have their father admit that he'd done something right, and then thank him for it.)

_"Of course," _Jeff Tracy responded._ "Stay alert, Virgil, and keep in close contact. Tracy, out."_

Virgil was actually warming to the thought of being back with their father… but that didn't mean that he couldn't give the long-absent man a (very cautious) hard time.

Nothing like family politics...

The hollow, reverberating boom of Thunderbird 2's partial contact with the ice, followed by the sparking screech of tearing metal came as a cold-water shock. 2's descent abruptly slowed to a vibrating, grinding shimmy.

Fast as he could, muttering scraps of prayer and urgent curses, Virgil triggered the pod and forward hull cameras, replacing his blank view screen shot with…

"Oh, my God… oh, no…"

_He'd forgotten to close the pod door._ Thunderbird 2's descending bulk had sheared about two-thirds of the thing clean off, leaving its crumpled remains jammed between the forward hull and the pod itself. Her leg motors were still trying to do their job, pushing Thunderbird 2 downward against mounting resistance from wadded, torn metal. And each rasping inch was doing further damage.

Virgil killed the descent motors with hands that shook. Too late, he spotted the flashing red 'pod door' warning light; a single small gleam in that galaxy of switches, dials and indicators. And then, cold as a knife blade came the sudden horrible thought that he might have just killed them all.

Help, Virgil decided. He needed help, from someone likely to shut up and listen, then work out a way to solve the problem. Who to call?

Not dad. Not if he could help it. Scott, either; or Brains (they had a lot on their minds, he told himself). Keying in the right comm channel after three nervous attempts, Virgil reached John.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2-_

Glittering energy sealed the inner hatch with a hiss and the muted whirring of a hundred tiny mechanisms. An overhead indicator light switched from red to green. Then, at Scott Tracy's signal, the outer hatch unsealed itself and retracted in two parts, like the armored carapace of a giant beetle.

Scott had believed himself well prepared. He wasn't. As the cold and wind and the wild, hacksaw snow blasted inside, he staggered backward, nearly colliding with the bulkhead. Even through his survival suit, he felt it. Cold like this stole the breath from your lungs and the heart from your body. Cold like this belonged on another planet.

"Ready?" he managed to gasp, making sure, with both hands, of the tether.

"_Yeah_," John replied, the receiver in Scott's parka making it sound as though his brother stood directly beside him. Voice link, beacons and that space-polymer line were all they had now, because the universe had reduced to a white, shrieking maw. They were blind.

"Okay. Ten feet straight ahead, according to the beacon. Stay close and keep moving, got it?"

"_I wrote the simulation… and designed half the damn e- … equipment, Scott. Yeah… I think I've got it."_

Great. Just what he needed; a pissed-off rescue partner. Because it felt like the right thing to do, Scott apologized.

"Sorry. I'm new at leading brothers into action, is all. It's, um…"

'_Scary'_ sounded weak, and so did '_confusing'_.

"…It's different."

"_Not a problem, Scott. I'm good."_

That settled, they headed out through the door and down the ramp, into the jaws of a savage Antarctic blizzard. Scott had to hold the beacon pressed nearly to his goggles to see the green, flashing arrow. Necessary, because he was instantly disoriented out there.

'_Straight ahead'_ meant nothing when gale-force winds assaulted you from every direction and you couldn't see two feet in front of your face. John had inched his way far enough along the unspooling line that he was able to take hold of Scott's harness strap. Also necessary, as each time Scott paused, the tether slackened, leaving John uncertain whether his older brother had dropped it, collapsed or simply reached the dome tent. Talking hurt, so he preferred to just hang on. Then came the calls from dad, and Virgil.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 1-_

You could take a boiled egg in your two hands, roll it back and forth between your palms, and crack its hard shell to a hundred small pieces, each still attached to the egg beneath. Moving ice and blistering cold had done this to the reactor core's protective coffin. Fine and small, at first, under pressure the cracks began to widen; and all at once, radioactive fire met far-below-zero wind.

As Hackenbacker crested the last (and highest) ridge, he heard a sudden thunder-clap detonation, followed by a firestorm of blazing concrete chunks. Instinctively, he gunned the tractor's engine, sending it sliding down the south face of the ridge and out of the line of fire.

Three… four… five strikes before the vehicle careened to safety, one of them cracking the main view port, another denting the cockpit fuselage so deeply that it looked as though a giant had attempted to put a finger through the titanium-steel hull. The chunk of half-molten debris came within a quarter inch of bashing clear through.

Doctor Hackenbacker controlled his breathing with a stern effort. The hull radiation sensors were flashing wildly for attention, but…

Debris and detonation meant steam, which in turn indicated that a bundle of unshielded fuel rods had just made contact with the glacier, and were melting their way through. Now what?


	34. 34: Pick Up the Pieces

Yet another recent edit; I made some changes because of my dissastisfaction with how the "dark matter shield" would hold up. It'd be nice if the thing, y'know, had an actual prayer of working... and thanks, Tikatu, ED, Ms Hobgoblin, Cathrl, Sam1, Boleyn and Zeilfanaat.

**34: Pick Up the Pieces**

_Thunderbird 2-_

He'd expected a sharp comment or possibly some muttered cursing. The silence, however, surprised him.

"John…?" Virgil prodded, keying the mike. "Did you hear me? I said…"

_"Shut up, Virgil. I'm thinking."_

He needed to think fast, too, because wind was now shrilling between pod and fuselage, clawing at torn and crumpled metal. Virgil Tracy could feel the wounded Bird's vibration growing wilder. Unless he could pull the craft back together, smooth her profile, the Antarctic gale would tear her apart. There was no hurrying John, though. Long minutes later, after a comm flash and a spate of harsh coughing, he said,

_"Okay… slowly raise her off… up off the pod, again. Get some… repair bots out there to re- remove… _(Short burst of static)…_ door. Then, um… then… shit! No program for that."_

Virgil had been nodding and punching buttons throughout John's transmission. Now he paused, waiting for further instructions as Thunderbird 2 shuddered and rocked around him, jacked up once more on her four tall legs. At last, John resumed speaking. He sounded rougher, this time, as though he were carrying something. One of the victims?

_"Yeah… So... listen, Virgil… and do exactly what I say."_

John had his worried younger brother key up the main computer and click on a series of weird icons. At first, nothing happened. Then…

"John, the whole thing's crashed! There's nothing but a black screen!"

Virgil was unable to keep the panic out of his voice. What the hell _else_ could go wrong?

_"Not a problem… just the command line. Enter… following char… following characters."_

More coughing ensued, and then a very long string of symbols, broken by frequent pauses. Virgil keyed as fast as he could, cursing his own hunt-and-peck awkwardness. Finally, though,

"Got it, John. It's in there. What's next?"

_"Read back."_

Read…? Oh, yeah. Virgil carefully, distinctly, began calling off all those small white characters. Sometimes he struggled to recall whether something was a tilde or backslash, and how to signal a new line, but he managed. His voice had faded to a dry whisper by the time Virgil said,

"That's it, John. That's all I've got. What now?"

More static. Then,

_"Hit return. It'll, um… reprogram the…the bots to cut some inner decking up. Make a new… door. Right. Call me back if you, um… need anything else. Got to go."_

"Thanks, John. Don't know if dad said anything, but you're a lifesaver. I mean it."

Virgil did as he was bidden, just about smashing the return key. For a long moment thereafter, the cargolifter's repair bots froze in their tracks, receiving new guidance. Then they began moving with rapid, renewed purpose, swarming the pod and hull like shimmering ants; snipping, lasering, welding.

Virgil kept the steering rockets firing, holding her steady while his robotic pit crew cut away wreckage and peeled metal flooring from the pod's inner deck. Once enough material had been harvested, they began to rig up a temporary door, working faster than the young pilot would have believed possible.

Meanwhile, Virgil kept an eye on the creaking glacier; no easy task with so much going on, and no cigarettes. Still mired in trouble up to his neck, he could only hope that the others were doing better.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 1-_

There was barely time to react, and none at all to be afraid. Doctor Hackenbacker slammed his vehicle forward with reckless haste, right to the edge of the pit which a bundle of enriched uranium had melted in the ice. Oddly enough, amid all the steam and wind and clattering concrete shards, the white sky had begun to hiss rain and spit meltwater. Hell of a weather report, that.

The shield device was more of a gun than anything else, and what it fired was a supersolid, a crystalline matrix of energy-hoarding discrete breathers. There was tungsten and heavy dark matter doping the mix, as well; both held in place by a planned quirk of their frequencies. Inert and cold as far, black space these substances might trap energy, even that of a nuclear core. If only he could place it fast enough.

At Hackenbacker's signal the shield gun emerged from its housing, unfolding like the long neck of a crane. The wide gun barrel swung down and around, aiming for a blue-white lump melting its way through the ice. He'd time for one decent shot, maybe two.

Setting his jaw, Brains slammed the gun's firing stud, sending a blue-black glob shooting forth. His supersolid mass hit the sinking fuel rods squarely. Then it began to spread, pouring itself down and around the twelve-by-four-foot bundle until every inch of uranium was coated in dense, swallowing black. And just like that, the reactor core stopped hissing downward, coming to rest in a small lake of boiling water. Brains sat there a moment, willing himself not to shake.

"P- Pull yourself together, Ike," he muttered aloud, mopping at his brow with a damp parka sleeve. "You've g- got, ah… got work to do."

…and another notion off the sketch pad. Now, though, he had to lift the temporarily shielded core and back his vehicle away from the edge. Heavy Dark Particles would not remain bound for long, meaning that his shield was inherently unstable. Still, if luck held and he was able to wrestle that core into Thunderbird 2, it could be coffined again; permanently, this time.

Brains triggered an anti-grav tractor beam, using a powerful laser and rotating magnetic torus to blast an ice ramp and generate a mighty pulling force. Scott had given him thirty minutes. Hackenbacker got the shielded core off the glacier and into a lead-lined compartment in just under forty-five.

Unbelievably… amazingly… he'd succeeded. Now all that he had to do was return to Thunderbird 2, where the others were doubtless waiting.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_On the ice-_

Scott located the fluttering orange tent wall, fumbled around for the outer door. _There…_

His goggles were frosted over, not that it mattered much. There was very little to see but ice, snow and the faint, stumbling shadow of his brother.

First the outer door; open… lurch through… reseal, blessedly killing that wind… then the inner, where twenty-three people huddled, still as ice sculptures. Scott wasted no time, though he was numbed clear through by wind and blowing snow.

"Is everyone…?" he rasped aloud, to his doubled-over, coughing brother.

"Alive so far, Scott. All of… all of them, according to… my scans."

Best news he'd had all day. If his face could have moved that much without cracking, Scott would have grinned.

"Okay, little brother. Grab the nearest customer, and get moving. Loaded up and over to the next tent in twenty minutes or less."

John looked up, actually seemed to smile for a minute.

"…Or it's free?" his younger brother asked, just as though they were delivering pizzas.

This time, Scott really did grin, splitting his cracked and icy lips until they bled.

"Shut up and get to work, wise-ass. We've got three more stops to make before quitting time."

They worked like automata, dragging people who could barely move into the waiting tractor. Some roused enough to thank them and walk a bit, and these Scott left for John, reserving the worst, least responsive cases for himself.

Back and forth they trudged, making twelve frigid-blind trips along the line. At last, Scott found himself staring around the dim interior of an empty tent, unable to quite recall what was happening. Someone else staggered in, then; John, with one arm clutched against his chest. _Bingo_… _South Pole Station, freezing scientists and a leaking reactor_.

"Done?" John coughed, bringing up blood which he vainly tried to conceal.

"Uh-huh… for now."

Scott plodded over. Placing a weary hand upon his brother's shoulder, he said,

"Just follow my track, John. Let me do the snow-plowing. And, uh… next three stops, long as everyone can walk, I bring 'em in… you treat 'em. Sound good?"

It was physically impossible to cock an eyebrow while wearing a mask and goggles, but John's tone said it all.

"Sounds like a damn cop-out, actually… but you've got a deal."


	35. 35: Long Odds

First edits. Short supper, long drive.

**35: Long Odds**

_Antarctica-_

Three people huddled seventy feet below the lip of a deep crevasse. Trapped on a narrow ledge of blue-white ice, they clung to one another and to the flexing wall, hardly daring to move. From far beneath them came the cold, dank breath of rushing water, the noise of tumbling stone and crashing ice; from above, the surge and whine of freezing winds.

They'd been hurled there from a disintegrating shelter, which had torn itself open before plunging into the void. Two men and a woman… all that remained of tent 3. Randy Clark, Jake Morrow and Maria Duchesne had no comm and little hope of rescue, but it was human nature to keep fighting, odds of survival be damned.

Knowing that water ice transmits radio waves over a very long distance, they all three bared enough each of their left hands to press faltering ID chips to the crevasse wall, but there were a great many variables to figure in. Maybe someone was listening, and able to help. Maybe the crack would remain open and their two-foot ledge stable. And maybe they'd be found before they froze to death.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

The telemetry from Rescue-2 had spiked suddenly from bad to critical, indicating major damage. Jeff gulped at a mouthful of strong black coffee, scalding himself and staining the fresh shirt Kyrano had supplied him. Ignoring the pain, International Rescue's commander jabbed a console button, a back-lit rectangle bearing the silhouette of a green cargolifter.

Instantly, a schematic, rotating image of Rescue-2 flashed onto Jeff's comm screen, blinking red from a dozen serious wounds. There were problems cropping up all over the battered aircraft. Hull breaches… severed hydraulic lines… unexplained cargo door malfunctions… steering-fuel shortage… and a sudden, brute-force program override.

Feeling his insides congeal to a cold, solid lump, Jeff Tracy mashed the desk comm's _send_ button.

"Virgil! What the hell's going on out there? Are you all right? Who authorized reprogramming? Virgil, _answer me!"_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The Ice, shelter 2-_

Karen Simenski got to her feet despite the numbed stiffness that had turned her arms and legs into lifeless, cold meat. She could literally not feel them, though they responded sluggishly to commands. But Leanna wasn't moving at all.

"C'mon, Pace," she urged, tapping at her friend's parka hood with a hand that might as well have been carved of stone. "Rise-n'-sh… shine, Lady."

_Please?_

She could not help her friend, had barely strength to lift herself. As the inner door seal hissed open, too cold and dehydrated for tears, Karen dropped back down. She pressed as closely as she could to her motionless friend, thinking to infuse what little warmth remained in her own body to Leanna.

"Almost there, Pace. Don't… don't drop the b- ball now."

Someone came through the shelter's inner door; a tall figure anonymously wrapped in safety-orange polar survival gear. A young man, by the depth and timbre of his voice.

"All right, folks… there's a safety line connecting the tent wall to our… our vehicle. Those of you still able to walk… please step forward."

_No. Not alone._ Leanna might be chilled down to the very core, but she was in there, somewhere, and surely able to hear a friend's voice. She'd know if Karen left her, and maybe give up.

"They're here, Pace," the astronomer whispered, adding their old 'going home' joke, "Time to… blow th- this Popsicle stand f- for the great, warm… north."

Their rescuer was still speaking, sounding not much better off than his half-frozen charges.

"My partner's back at… at the tractor hold. He'll… get you settled in."

Very slowly, those who could, began to move. But Karen would have stayed where she was had Elton Caruthers not helped her to get Leanna out of that fetal crouch and off the ground. Spotting the numbed and tottering trio, the young stranger stopped gasping directions to head over. Like them, he shuffled along on booted feet that could no longer sense ground nor impact with obstacles, and he panted at thin, dry, paper-cut air.

"Need… a hand, folks?"

The half of her face that could still smile, did so. Karen even managed a small joke, saying,

"M- my knight in… shining armor!"

"Aww…" Elton groused, as the younger man supplanted him at Leanna's left side, "M- meteorologists… _never_ get th- the girl."

Karen didn't want to lose him, either; Elton-with-the-card-tricks-and-movie-trivia.

"Quick. Loop an… arm through, El. Hang… hang on to me. Off to see… th' wizard."

"…'Cause of his wunnerful… heaters," Elton blurrily agreed.

And so, out the door in a straggling human chain, taking the longest fifteen-foot walk of Karen's life. The ice and the wind and the brittle white air tried to force a halt, but Karen held tight to the others and plowed onward, trusting that _someone_ had the guideline. She clung especially hard to Leanna Pace; pushing, pulling, dragging, too focused now to joke or speak.

Then, after an uncounted number of short, wobbling steps, something dark materialized before them, blocking just a fraction of the wind. Shelter…!

A new hand took hold of her parka suddenly, jerking Karen Simenski's group through two separate thresholds. The first was open to wind and cold alike, but the next door, containing a sort of sparking soap-bubble film, somehow blocked the knife-like outer air. Stumbling through, Karen made out a second rescuer and a long, low-ceilinged chamber packed with gradually thawing others. They'd made it.

"Thank you…!" Karen gasped, as their young man from the tent and line handed her over to he of the warming vehicle and impatient tug. These two had raced to the bottom of the world after 115 lost causes, at least one of whom was deeply grateful.

The first man nodded once before trudging through that sparking force wall and out into screaming chaos. The second coughed a bit, eventually responding with,

"Not a problem… but recommend that you sit before, um… sensation returns. S' going to hurt like hell when… blood flow comes back."

His goggles were off, revealing a pair of startling blue eyes in a ski-masked face. His cloth-muffled words were somewhat slurred and filled with abrupt, gasping pauses. Not good.

"Emergency core warming… equipment against aft bulk… bulkhead. Know how to use?"

Karen and Elton both nodded, already feeling the sharp sting and thorn-prickle of returning warmth.

"Okay… head on back, then. More, um… coming through."

She smiled bracingly, because he seemed quite young, and because all of the ways that he _wasn't_ moving indicated some sort of injury. _Might_ _have_ _to_ _watch_ _the_ _situation_, Karen decided, as she and Elton guided a shambling Leanna Pace toward the promised warming gear; Knight-in-shining-armor-two appeared close to collapse, himself. Very much, not good.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 1, blundering toward Thunderbird 2-_

The shield was failing, if his vehicle's radiation sensors were correct. Taking a hand off the steering wheel, muttering under his breath, Brains switched half the forward view screen to internal cameras 5 and 7 (6 had ceased functioning). What he got in return was bad news, of the 'make out a will' variety. In the few snowy, skipping images that he was able to call up, Hackenbacker glimpsed spears of harsh blue radiation piercing a bubbling, phase-changing shield. His supersolid was breaking down, leaving only a few centimeters of lead and aircraft aluminum between Brains and the glowing-hot nuclear fuel rods. The question was, did he have time to get the seething reactor core to Thunderbird 2, or should he abandon his tractor, and attempt to walk?


	36. 36: One of Those Days

First edits. Thanks again for your kind patience, and to Ms. Hobgoblin, Eternal Density and Boleyn for their reviews.

**36: One of Those Days**

_Antarctica, on the ice-_

Maria Duchesne had a cell phone. Not much signal, and not for very long, but she managed to reach her husband's voice mail with it; managed to gasp out _"I love you,"_ and tell him where they were.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 1-_

It had worked well in theory. In computer simulations and small lab trials, the HDP/ tungsten-matrix shield had functioned admirably… but field tests frequently yielded unexpected results. He knew that.

As he wrestled the low-slung tractor over an icy landscape of treacherous ridges, Doctor Hackenbacker struggled as much with frustration as gut-level fear. He'd one eye on the cracked main viewport, the other on his cargo-hold temperature gauge. Neither provided much comfort.

For one thing, the viewport's damaged area seemed to have grown, radiating fine webs whenever Brains plowed over the frozen crest of a ridge and hurtled down its long, jagged north side. Each thunderous _'WHUMP!'_ and jouncing impact spread the cracks like faintly audible lightning, mazing the tough Plexiglas and interfering with its projected telemetry.

Where before he'd had GPS and sensor data overlaying that dead-white view, now there were flickering error messages and static. Now he stood a very real chance of becoming lost.

Worse, the hold's internal temperature gauge and radiation meters had spiked. Clearly, the unshielded reactor core was melting a hole through his tractor floor. Hackenbacker wasn't helpless, though. Unable to contact Rescue-2 through the growing fog of radiation surrounding his damaged vehicle, Brains increased his speed instead. Then he cut on his cargo hold sprinklers, damping down the fuel rods' searing, blue-white heat… a little.

There wasn't enough cooling foam contained in the tractor's emergency tanks, though; he'd have to hurry. So, as wind clawed and ice flexed beneath him, as metal blistered and glowed, Doctor Hackenbacker pushed his luck and accelerator pedal just a little further.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil took a very deep breath, nerved himself, and hit the comm button.

"Uh… Dad? Base from Thunderbird 2?"

_(God, he didn't want to do this!)_

_"Go ahead, Virgil."_

The middle Tracy swallowed hard. He was cocooned amid red light, beeping sensors and repair noises, while just outside the South Pole did its level damn best to kill him, and thousands of miles away his father waited for answers.

"Sir, I'm okay. I'm fine, and so are the others. Near as I can tell, both Scott and Brains are still following the game plan. But, um… there's been a… _aw_, _hell!_ " The rest came forth in a desperate rush. "Dad, the truth is, I made a mistake. I wasn't paying attention, and I tried to lower 2's main body without closing the pod door, first. There's been some structural damage to the Bird, Sir… but John's reprogrammed her maintenance bots to fix the problem, so we oughta be okay. Anyhow, no excuses; it's my fault this happened, and I'm sorry."

He pent and held another shaky-taut breath, feeling like he'd just fumbled the ball to the other team and then chased a whooping enemy linebacker all the way to the damn end zone. (Which had happened once, actually.)

Jeff Tracy's reply was bleak and prompt. (He hadn't been there to witness that awful blunder, but two bleacher-loads of stricken neighbors _had._)

_"I see,"_ his father responded. _"Thank you for clarifying the situation, Virgil. I'll need 10-minute updates on the aircraft repairs, and a temporary lay-over plan, in the event that your take-off is seriously delayed."_

He didn't say so, but the other possibility… that 2 would be unable to lift off at all, and the rescuers themselves require rescue… was very much on his mind. Because his middle son was too ashamed to do more than mumble assent, Jeff added,

_"I'm certain that you've learned from this experience, Virgil, and that it's not going to happen again."_

Damn straight, it wouldn't. As he'd silently promised on the field that day, while the victorious Spartans celebrated all around him, Virgil Tracy swore: _Never again. Not because of me._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2-_

It was John's turn, this time out; Scott needing a chance to recover from conditions so lethally fierce that even a brief exposure sapped you half-dead. Warning everyone back (the hold was already crowded with victims and about to become more so), John entered the tractor's airlock and triggered its environment-retaining energy field. The force wall glimmered softly behind him, casting pale shadows and quivering bands of light. Nice, in an 'under the sea' kind of way.

As well as he could alone, John checked over his harness and gear, finding no snafus. Okay; now for the outer hatch, and hell-on-Earth.

His tether was fastened to a steel-alloy harness ring… one end ready to affix outside, creating a lifeline. Yeah. Good to go.

With a quick word to Scott (still up front in the cockpit), John opened the second door, allowing sledgehammer winds and feral cold sudden access to the flickering spark within.

_Damn_.

He pushed forward against screaming air, beacon held close to his frost-furred goggles. Fought his way through the hatch and attached the line… then out and down. It was a long first step, and he had to brace for impact with the wind-pitted ice, because his side blossomed fire with every breath and slight jar. But John had far more important things to do than feel sorry for himself.

First, follow the beacon to an invisible tent full of threatened people… one step after another,... with nothing before or behind but the promise of shelter. His feet moved because he forced them to, muttering, "Shit, it's cold," in every language he knew. And so it was; made goddam Wyoming seem like a palm-fringed Honolulu beach.

On the bright side, if he and Ken ever sat down at the Tin Star again to trade _'One night, it was so cold…'_ stories, John was definitely going to win. Of course, by then he'd be a pitiful, nose- and ear-less amputee, but he'd get a free beer out of the deal, and… _huh?_

_Tent_, emerging from psychotic whiteness like a fog-covered boulder. Okay. Time for phase two: the hook up. A simple enough process, in simulation and theory. The hard part was removing your gloved hand from its insulating, chemically-heated mitten long enough to shift the tether from harness to wind-rattled shelter… _without_ losing a limb to frostbite. But, hey; you couldn't have everything.

John pulled his left hand free, felt it at once go numb despite the dense under-glove… and that was just the beginning. It was difficult, working the tether's stubborn carabiner free of his harness ring and onto the tent. You couldn't force it, though. In conditions like these, metal could snap like dry wood, and he hadn't thought to bring along a spare. He tried three times to fasten the tether, pausing once because the wind clubbed him sideways, forcing the young man to seize a thrumming tent pole, or be hurled across the ice.

As far as he was concerned, God was far away and utterly indifferent; never hearing a single word or half-spoken wish. Not ever. And, yeah, maybe John _deserved_ to be ignored, all things considered… but the people huddled inside that tent did not. Because of this, and because he was all the hope they had, John kept trying.

On his fifth attempt, he succeeded in fastening the frost-rimed carabiner to a ring on the shuddering wall. Then he stood numbly blinking at the thing, unable to quite grasp this simple, all-important victory: lifeline attached, rescue initiated... by him.

"Scott," he gasped aloud, with each breath drawing painful shards of frigid air. "Hooked up and going in. They'll be headed your way… soon… so you might want to… um, start for… the hold."

_"On my way, John. Watch yourself out there, and keep me posted. I can make it to your position in five minutes, if you need a hand."_

Uh-uh. Nice try, but no score. Deposit quarter to play again.

Deflecting his brother's concern, John replied,

"May need two hands… thanks to damn frostbite. S' a little nippy… out here."

_"I noticed. Get your ass inside the tent, ASAP, and stay in touch."_

Advice which John Matthew Tracy absolutely intended to take. Just in case their comm worked, he switched to a universal channel and tried ringing the tent's doorbell with a brief, beeping 'CQ'. Then he found and opened the first seal, grateful to his very core when he'd shut it behind him, and that sand-blasting wind died off, at last.

Someone opened the tent's inner seal, which was a good thing, considering that his brief halt had left him almost too chilled and sluggish to move. Hands yanked him deep within, drawing John to a seat on a stack of blankets beside the buzzing space heater. Inside, it smelled and sounded and looked like a lot of people in a very small place, so he kept his head down. Crowds were best acclimated to in cautious, quick doses, even when they seemed actually glad to see you.

A dark-bearded older man crouched before him to get the heavy mittens, mask and goggles off. Somebody else brought coffee.

Okay, it wasn't his cup (or even a fresh disposable one), but any microorganisms hardy enough to survive all this would probably wind up making him stronger. So John silently toasted the health of _'Antarcticus Freezer-Butt' _and swallowed a mouthful of strong coffee. Here's to warmth, life and extremophiles...

The Beard said,

"Welcome. I'm Wilfred Darson, a glaciologist with MIT and the US Geological Survey team. Thank you for risking so much on our behalf, Mister…?"

Darson's words ended on a sort of groping note, which John guessed to mean that he wanted a name.

Um... problem. He _couldn't_ tell the truth, and wasn't a very good liar. Trapped, John decided to compromise.

"Ian Matthews," he muttered, flushing hot from the lie, the coffee and all those close-packed others. He wished they'd stop staring; finally had to take another drink and focus on someone's NASA sleeve patch to keep going. "I'm, uh… with International Rescue. There's a tractor just outside, at the end of my tether, so, um..."

Disaster struck, sudden as lighting sparks fire. Pausing to drink, John accidentally inhaled part of his third mouthful, triggering a choked and brutal, excruciating cough.

He'd been beaten, once. Cornered alone and overwhelmed, he'd been repeatedly punched and kicked hard enough to cause just that sort of sickening pain, that red-flashed, blinding shock.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil's second report to his father had come and gone, and _still_ the repairs went on. Keeping one worried brown eye on his instruments, the young pilot checked on Scott and Hackenbacker. His brother's only response was a terse…

_"Call back in ten!"_

…while Brains couldn't be reached at all. According to the broad-range scanner, though, there was a major radiation source headed his way at nearly 50 miles per hour. Hackenbacker; it had to be… coming in fast and hot.

Once again, Virgil hit the comm. Utterly dry-mouthed, he called,

"Anybody, from Thunderbird 2. Guys… I think we've got an emergency."


	37. 37: Turning Point

An edit.

**37: Turning Point**

_The last shelter-_

Safety in maths; comfort in numbers. They had to move him, because it was quite a bit colder on the floor of the tent than a foot or so above it, where some of the heat and moisture had gathered. In order to be examined, he'd have to have at least his parka removed, and down at ice-level, this could have been deadly. Thus, all the shifting and tugging, which sent corkscrews of scarlet-edged pain boring that much deeper into his side.

To distract himself and prevent another disastrous 'retreat', John considered Ricci Flow; the way that a tightly curved spacetime tends to diffuse outward like heat, until all the lumps are smoothed and uniformity has been achieved. He flashed through the luminous beauty of a hyperbolic universe like a 4D stained-glass window, with colors you could see and feel, but not describe. Better, there was a preferred direction to this unrolling of space, and thus, also, to time; entropy's direction. A lovely thing to consider, and quite able to drive off the pain of a few broken ribs and a science foundation doctor.

"Ian…?" somebody asked.

_Who?_ Oh… yeah; that's what he'd decided to call himself, because it wasn't an absolute lie. 'Ian' meant 'John', in certain language families.

A woman formed to house the questioning voice; a knot of concerned matter in the local energy field. Hard to be sure, but John had the impression that she'd repeated the name several times already. Her brows were drawn together, eyes narrowed and corners of mouth turned down. That was 'worried', right?

_Shit._ Some rescuer he was turning out to be…

"Yeah?" he responded blurrily, as the shadow and ghost of other people formed and took solidity around them.

Probably, she said something important like, "Take a deep breath for me", but he'd got distracted, again. The hand with the wrist comm (his right) was lower than the other, down in the shuddersome cold by the tent floor. That near to the ice, it had picked up a very weak signal; what seemed like a blurred and fading ID chip trace. Survivors from the missing tent, maybe?

"_Ian_, I c- can't examine you properly if you… won't cooperate!"

He wished she'd shut up, because it was hard to think through all this chatter, and he had to triangulate to get a real fix on the signal's inception point. Hard to talk, too, but maybe if he threw her a bone, she'd go away?

"Broken ribs, left side. Hurts like hell to breathe. If you… if strap me up, we'll start, um… start moving."

He _had _to get back to the tractor for a second fix on that wavering RFID signal, but people (doctors, especially) picked the worst damn times to interfere, waving aspirin and bed rest orders like he had nothing better to do than sleep.

Doctor Sharon Floyd muttered aloud to herself, using a belly-warmed scanner to confirm the patient's self-diagnosis.

"Male, C- Caucasian… late teens- early twenties… approximately 130 pounds, presenting with self-described pain t- to the left sagittal thoracic region… ribs and intercostals. Upon examination, s- swelling, tenderness and motion are… are evident, as are r- reluctance to inhale deeply, or to cough. Scan reveals… impact and stress fractures to left r- ribs 5, 6 and 7."

Her breath misted in the frigid, musty air of the tent. Far from ideal working conditions, but Doctor Floyd stayed professional despite the cold and her recalcitrant patient's constant attempts to rise.

"Ian!" He seemed confused, momentarily; major evidence that he'd simply made the name up. Also, he was awfully young for so hazardous a job, deeply bruised, injured and sunburnt. _Definitely, _odd goings-on.

"…Ordinarily, I w- wouldn't recommend strapping your ribs… because it p- prevents deep breaths and coughing… which c- could lead to pneumonia… but temporarily, a b- binding wrap might be the best solution. Brace… brace yourself, sweetheart."

She got help from young Sarah Darson and Ahmet Khalid. Together, their hands ice-white and terribly numb, they wrapped three rolls of medkit bandage around Ian's narrow ribcage, strapping him tight. He hardly noticed. Extremely good-looking young man with few apparent social skills, his "thank you" being little more than a grunted after-thought… Although the National Science Foundation and Doctor Floyd, herself, would later receive staggeringly large, anonymous donations.

At any rate, they soon had their confusing young rescuer patched up well enough to brave the ice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

The repair bots had barely fastened and lowered the new pod door (bracing it against the ice below with a sharp, ringing clang) when Hackenbacker's tractor raced up. He was incommunicado, yet, due to all that heat-shimmer radiation, but there was a contingency plan in place for just such scenarios; one Virgil had simulated a dozen times.

As tractor 1 approached the lowered door, Virgil Tracy triggered the opening of a lead-and-tungsten-lined compartment at the rear of the pod. Much larger and heavier than anything the tractor might have toted, this compartment could safely coffin a hundred times as much nuclear fuel. Better still, when the time came, it could be detached from the rest of the vehicle and left behind.

The tractor wove and surged erratically, barely reaching the new ramp before its guidance and power cut off. Fortunately, the maintenance bots took hold (working like a swarm of red ants moving the body of a dead lizard) and soon wrestled Hackenbacker's crippled tractor the rest of the way within.

Virgil had keyed up the forward cameras, but all he could see was blowing snow and flickering static. Inside the pod, his view improved, for the door's environment shield held wind and weather out. Between flashes of static, he caught a few glimpses of the tractor being dragged along by maintenance bots and a carefully placed winch attachment.

(Say what you wanted about Hiram Hackenbacker, the man was a firm believer in redundant systems; he had contingencies to his back-ups to his fail-safes to his what-ifs.)

Virgil watched with concern… half controlling Thunderbird 2, half worrying… as in widely separated flashes, the tractor made its way aft. But where was…? _There._

In one of the static-framed images, Brains could be seen clambering out the tractor's cockpit hatch. Very swiftly, he was surrounded. Half-blinded by ambient radiation, the maintenance robots clattered up and explored him with curious, telescoping feelers. They'd been programmed by John to spot and detain intruders, but Hackenbacker had designed and approved these insectoid machines, and he knew all their op-codes. He was never in real danger of being anesthetized.

Down in the red-lit pod, Brains glanced over one shoulder long enough to watch the rear of his tractor clear the door's containment field. Like a fabric-softener sheet attracted to fresh laundry, the field sparked and clung momentarily before snapping back into door-seal configuration. Interesting… too much attraction to metal. He'd have to work on that, the engineer supposed. Now though, a hasty retreat in good order would assure that he lived to design another day.

Not waiting for the pod to deploy a gantry, Hackenbacker scrambled and slid from the leaking tractor. After all, the anti-radiation features in his survival suit could only handle so much. As he jogged across the pod, Brains had a look around. Startlingly, the other tractor wasn't yet returned to its berth, and the hold was empty of living things, but for Hackenbacker. Odder still, the pod's double floor appeared to have been cannibalized. Several hundred square feet of decking had vanished entirely.

"Ah… V- Virgil?" he called out, over the noise of skittering robots and clashing metal. "What's, ah… what's h- happened to my rescue pod, and where are y- your brothers?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_At sea-_

From the bridge of the storm-tossed _HMS Dreadnought,_ Cindy Taylor adjusted the set of her dark hair, and made ready to broadcast.

"Everything okay?" she asked her cameraman, Abe Lieberson (meaning, "How do I look?").

Distracted from his filters and motion dampers, the skinny redhead glanced up. Instead of saying "sea sick", he gave the WNN reporter a smile and a smooth lie.

"Never better, girl. Ready for broadcast in 5… 4…"

The rest was completed silently as Abe, his head behind the stabilized camera, ticked off the rest of his countdown on three upheld fingers. They'd gotten permission from the icebreaker's captain to transmit from his bridge, with a slightly blurred, declassified background lending a sense of urgent activity. More importantly, they'd also gotten hold of some major news.

"Hello, Peter," Cindy announced, using her firm-but-caring, show voice. "It's ten minutes after 3 AM, off the coast of Antarctica, and weather conditions continue to worsen. Things may be looking up, however, as we've just received word that a US high school teacher in Las Vegas ,Nevada… one Michael Duchesne… has gotten a voice mail message from his wife, Maria, one of the endangered South Pole scientists."

Here, Cindy paused, both to allow the far distant Peter Ride some response time, and to let her stomach settle. The icebreaker plunged and wallowed like a harpooned whale, more like a dizzying carnival ride than a ship.

The camera's lights were extremely bright, but Cindy could still make out the monitor screen Abe had placed alongside. On it, the blond anchorman's gravely nodding head and captioned words struck the appropriate note of distress.

"Yes, indeed, Cindy. We've got a crew setting up live outside Mr. Duchesne's house, right this very minute, to bring you the family's response to this heart-tugging plea for help. Before we cut to an audio clip of the phone message…"

(Dammit! They'd already heard!)

"…Is there anything new on the National Guard rescue effort?"

Cindy struggled for composure. In this business, you had to be hard, fast and utterly poised in the midst of chaos… or floundering ships. She maintained a confident tone and an even, warmly sympathetic expression.

"Absolutely, Peter. I can now report that a new group, evidently a recently formed WorldGov rescue team, has joined in the effort to save the US South Pole station's storm-bound crew. According to my sources, the brave men and women of 'International Rescue' have just won through to the Pole, and appear to be initiating search and retrieval activities, Peter."

After the usual satellite-link delay, the anchorman blinked. Hah! He hadn't heard _that_ one!

Behind his camera, Abe gestured slightly, and Cindy wiped most of the triumph off of her face. She was supposed to be gravely concerned, not whooping with delight.

…But news was her livelihood, and tragedy, sex, surprise and scandal sold airtime.

(…And to hell with this unstable toy boat, anyhow! Why couldn't the captain hold a damn course?)

"That's certainly good to hear, Cindy. Folks, that's breaking news for you, from WNN's Cindy Taylor, on the bridge of the _HMS Dreadnought, _in the icy Antarctic waters off the North Pole. International Rescue, these unknown WorldGov heroes… No? They're being denied by WorldGov, folks, and by every national assembly but Estonia's…an Estonian WorldGov official, Vincip Fryxell, claims to have given International Rescue the go-ahead to begin operations... have to check on that, not that we don't trust the fine government and people of the Estonian, er… brotherhood… but anyway, International Rescue, we've just learned, has arrived at the scene of this gripping disaster, apparently beating the National Guard and New Zealand Royal Navy to the punch. More as it develops, folks. And now, over to Jake Croft in Las Vegas, Nevada, where…"

Abe gestured again, the camera's red light winked off, and Cindy finally allowed herself a fierce, feral grin. Glancing at Captain Simmons, she said (in her wheedling, "just little ol' me" voice),

"There any way you could arrange to get us a little closer, Admiral?"


	38. 38: Family Business

**38: Family Business**

_A message, received and broadcast all over the world, under the sea, and out to the Moon-_

"Mike… it's me, H- Honey. I'm… Please don't w- worry, okay? I'm fine, f- for now. On, um… on a ledge w- with Jake and Randy. Remember them? Tell s- someone we're here, please, Mike? Not going to… b- be scared, 'cause… I know everything's okay. I love you, Honey… and the kids. I love you."

Her voice was barely audible over that heart-stabbing wind; weak with cold, strong with hope. Naturally, WNN and every other extant news agency played the message over and over, sharing Mike and Maria Duchesne's anguish with a far-flung, insatiable audience.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil, too, had heard the broadcast. It made his fists clench on yoke and instrument panel. Made him want to leap from his warm cockpit and out to the hidden ledge where three people clung to life with all the strength they had left.

Not that he could have accomplished anything. The original call couldn't have come from more than a mile away, but Virgil Tracy was too desperately busy to respond. He might as well have been parked at the highest peak of Mt. Everest, so occupied was he with holding the battered cargolifter steady, guiding repairs, monitoring Hackenbacker's progress, and updating Island Base.

If only Scott or John would call in! But instead, all he got was comm-blasted.

_"Ah… V- Virgil? What's, ah… what's h- happened to my rescue pod, and where are y- your brothers?"_

Virgil winced. Hating to let Brains down, to disappoint him, the young rescue pilot nevertheless told the absolute truth.

"Scott and John are wrapping things up at the pickup site, Brains," (he was pretty sure) "But, as for the pod, that's on me. I, um, screwed up the re-connect and busted the pod door. John reprogrammed your bots to make another, so we're okay, probably… no thanks to me. And I wanted to say that I'm really…"

_"Screwed up? Busted?" _Hackenbacker's voice dripped unconcealed scorn. _"I am not, ah… not your d- drinking buddy, Virgil. Nor am I t- to be put off with, ah… with cute euphemisms. You m- mishandled… damaged… a prototype, b- billion-dollar aircraft th- through sheer, ah… sheer, careless d- disregard for correct procedure!"_

Utterly miserable, Virgil Tracy hunched a bit lower in the pilot's seat.

"I know, and I'm sorry, Brains. I…"

_"Doctor Hackenbacker, if y- you please. And I'll b- be advising your, ah… your f- father that a neurotypical teenaged boy has no, ah… no b- business flying my v- valuable equipment!" _

Virgil Tracy looked around himself at the Bird he'd thoughtlessly damaged and already loved. At viewscreens and sensors, readouts and indicator lights. From something, some subtle combination of roar and thrum and sway, he drew sudden strength. One hand on the steering yoke, the other at his comm switch, Virgil said,

"Yeah; it _was_ my fault, doctor, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again, though, which I can guaran-damn-tee because I'm her _pilot_, and keeping her in one piece is my job."

Maybe it was Grandma's stories. She'd described so well the giant bird, its hot golden eyes and two heads twisting back to regard the young men who swam through darkness to release it. Maybe he was just being stubborn. No flint knives, no bonds of weed and slime to saw, but a fight, just the same.

"Anyway, I've already told dad, and he figures I can be trusted to know better, next time."

In the story, three young warriors had cut and slashed at nets of dank seaweed until the spirit of Storm and Wind was freed, half-drowning themselves in the process. They'd have died, had Thunderbird not seized them in its strong, curving talons and shot like a spear for light and warmth and air (according to Grandma).

And this one would make it to safety, too, with everyone rescued and accounted for. Suddenly, certainly, he _knew_.

Perhaps the engineer hadn't expected Virgil… collie-dog, big-lug, crowd-pleasing Virgil… to bite back. At any rate, the comm transmitted nothing but static and startlement for several long, brittle moments. Then,

_"W- Well, of course, Virgil. If, ah… if Mr. Tracy has given permission and y- you've got the, ah… the situation under c- control…"_

Damn straight, he did. Everyone made mistakes; smart people learned from them. Brave ones absorbed the lesson and kept going.

"It's handled, Brains. Now, I'll need you to supervise operations down there; to see about completing repairs and getting the refugees stowed away when Scott and John come back. I've been stretched kinda thin so far, and I could really use your help."

…Because a distracted rescue pilot was a corpse waiting to happen, and the messy end of all those who depended on him.

_"Certainly, V- Virgil. I'll assist in, ah… in any way that I c- can."_

"FAB, Brains. Keep me posted."

He grew up, that day. They all did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Like everyone else, Jeff Tracy had heard WNN's broadcast; the cell phone message, Vincip Fryxell's ridiculous claims, and a rather breathless series of dispatches from Cindy Taylor (a pit-bull reporter he knew, and disliked). He also listened to bits of his sons' communications; the little that made it through all that sudden static, anyhow.

Jeff scowled, and then tried shifting comm frequencies. If he hadn't known better, he'd have suspected that someone was deliberately attempting to jam their communications. WorldGov, maybe? Or the US Navy, trying to force him to bargain? Possibly seeking a way to listen in?

He ran a hand through his iron-grey hair. The coffee before him was cold, but Jeff drank it, anyway. The bitterness and grit helped him to think. Glancing at Rescue-2's glowing icon (the repairs were progressing well); Tracy called up one of his older sons.

"John…" _Dammit!_ _No_ _names!_ "…Listen carefully: no reply necessary. I believe that an attempt is being made to tap or block the comm. Advise your… _teammates_… and take reasonable open-line security measures. _Out."_

His comm clicked twice by way of response. Message received, and understood… and damned if the little weasel wasn't proving incredibly useful, after all.

A slight motion behind him caused Jeff to look around. His mother, again.

"I'd as soon wait here, Jeffery Connal," she advised him, face and thin shoulders stubbornly set, hands folded atop the brass knob of her cane. "Half a them TV reports're nuthin' but lies, the rest, pure ignorance."

She took a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye.

"What's done is done, and no help for it. But Scott, Teddy and John Matthew are my boys, too… and I want to know what's happenin', over there."

Truce?

Jeff nodded, more relieved than he cared to admit. Victoria Tracy's fiery spirit and granite will were as necessary to International Rescue as the boys' piloting skills, Hackenbacker's genius, and his own business sense. Scott, Virgil and John needed her… and so did he. Here, after all, was half the mold that had cast him. The other half had passed away; like Lucy, forever. You had to cling that much harder, then, to whatever... _whoever..._ you had left.

Jeff stood, fetched a chair for his mother and bade her join him with a small courtly flourish.

"Have a seat, Mother. You're welcome to watch and listen, but try not to say anything on vox. I have a hunch that someone is making a serious effort to crack our security measures. So, until further notice, no names or relationships over the air, please."

Victoria perched at the edge of her leather chair, sharp-eyed and quick as a bird. Too anxious for much of a smile, she tried anyhow, saying,

"I'll mind my tongue, Jeffery. _You_ mind them boys."

Jeff dared to pat her small hand, then, feeling thin, fragile bones beneath paper-dry skin.

"Yes, ma'am," he told her, letting another set of shoulders take part of his burden. "They'll be home for breakfast, I promise you."

Unbeknownst to Jeff, someone else had slipped into the room; TinTin Kyrano. The girl crouched behind a large console, willing herself to be small, slight and invisible. Hands pressed to her mouth, she sat perfectly still; listening every bit as hard as she prayed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The ice, Tractor 2-_

A few at a time, the polar crew trooped within, escorted first by John Tracy and then, when he could no longer, by Scott. Tent three had been terribly crowded, so it took awhile to move everyone to safety. Scott kept going because that's what you did, but this was more hurt, more exhaustion, than he'd ever experienced outside of ejection. Last few trips, he began humming the Air Force Hymn, then wheezing it aloud.

"Nuthin' can stop… th' US Air Fooooorce…!" Sounded pretty drunk, actually.

Inside the hold, John grimly directed traffic. He had another shoe to drop, but thought it best to wait until this latest herd of folk were locked and loaded (as Scott would put it).

Finally, his parka-ed older brother staggered back through the inner force wall, chanting something about,

"Live in fame… or go down… n' flame…!"

To which John said nothing at all. Whatever works, right? John had mathematics, quantum computing and Eta Carinae. Scott had... um… martial themes.

Moving very carefully (_still_ burned and tore like something inside him was trying to claw its way out) John helped his brother up front, offering him a respirator and cup of coffee. What he had to say was important, but the polar crew didn't need to hear it. Not yet.

"Next tent?" Scott rasped, pulling his wind-chapped face away from the respirator's plastic mask.

John looked away, then back again. His hood was off, revealing tousled blond hair and reddened press-marks from the goggles. He couldn't seem to complete a sentence without pausing for air, and didn't stand quite straight, even with all the strapping.

"No. It's gone. There's a crevasse instead, stretching halfway across the target zone… we'd have had to, um… had to stop, anyhow. My guess is… it opened beneath the tent." So, decision time.

"There's more: Virgil called with… part of a message, and I make three signals… just below the north edge. Survivors, looks like."

Returning warmth burned his feet, hands and face like lancets of fire, but Scott forced himself to listen. Meanwhile, John continued, one arm folded awkwardly across his chest,

"About, um… seventy feet down, two hundred yards south, south-west. Probable waste of time. Most likely… dead before we reach the… crevasse. So, you want to go… go get them?"

There was never really a question. Scott took another pull at the respirator, letting warm, medicated mist swirl into his dried and aching lungs. Standing, he accepted more coffee and a chocolate-almond power bar.

"I'm not leaving with the job half done," the pilot told his younger brother. "They need us, we're there. Call it in… and let's move."

John nodded at something off to the left.

"Thought so," he said, quietly.


	39. 39: Bad News

Third draft; further edits to come. Thanks, all, for your comments and reviews.

**39: Bad News**

_The waters off Antarctica, HMS Dreadnought-_

That brief, multicast phone message had turned the world's viewing/ listening/ uplinked audience into one massive, hungry organism. Disaster had been scented, and the possibility of rescue… some movie-of-the-week happy ending… seemed remote, despite the efforts of WorldGov's mysterious new agency. Naturally, Cindy Taylor wanted her piece of the rush. But,

_"'Captain', _Miss, not 'admiral'…" Simmons corrected her. A relatively small and slight man, ruddy-faced as a peach, he was a great deal tougher than he looked. "…and hardly likely to ever be made one, if I'm stupid enough to place ship and crew in mortal danger for the sake of a bleeding news report."

Cindy's brows drew together. She was dark-haired, herself; with large brown eyes and a pretty face that entirely failed to conceal her quick temper.

"That means '_no'_," Captain Simmons went on, before she had time to reply. Bracing himself against the ship's dip and plunge with wide stance and an out-flung arm to the bulkhead, he added, "The weather's been trouble enough, Miss, even without heading closer to the ice, or having our communications bloody well tampered with!"

_Tampered with? Really? A possible angle, there…_

Cindy adjusted her expression, pouring on the fake, Barbie-doll charm.

"You're being jammed?" she suggested, 'accidentally' allowing the ship's roll to throw her into its startled master. He caught her, as Cindy had intended (not that, wrapped in parkas and about twenty layers of warm clothing, there was much chance of a feel; still, it was the distraction… the _possibility_… that mattered).

Somewhat breathily, lips parted and eyes deliberately huge, she said,

"But, who'd be able to do _that?_ WorldGov, you think? Or the US, or…" (She could already taste that broadcast journalism award) "…maybe this new rescue team?"

"Good question, Miss Taylor; one I'm not at liberty to discuss with the news media. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm wanted at the helm."

Captain Simmons handed her off to his XO, a no-nonsense woman of Maori descent, cinnamon-skinned and tall.

"But…!"

"Sorry, Luv," Commander Emere Pania told her, quite straight-faced. "The vamping bit won't work with me, you know."

_Dammit! And who'd decided to let women officers on Navy ships, anyhow? All they ever did was get in the way!_

Nevertheless, Cindy recovered well, pulling herself upright and stepping aside as though she had no idea what this dribbling idiot was talking about.

Abe Lieberson was her cameraman. He paused in stowing their gear to pat Cindy's shoulder, leaning in to whisper,

"According to the radioman (not _him,_ Kitten; the sexy one. Just went off duty)… Anyhow, Paul says that a local storm buoy's reporting some rogue waves, headed this way. So, we're leaving, like it or not. Nothing left to do but hang on and try to enjoy the ride, Cin. Sorry."

And again, _dammit!_ She'd come this close to a career-making story, only to be driven off by a little bad-mannered water. To hell with the ocean! Well… maybe she could research that comm problem on her own?

"Sure thing. Listen, Abe… before you leave me to go hunk-trawling, how good are your hacking skills?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2, out on the ice-_

The crevasse gaped before them like the lipless mouth of a giant corpse; some twenty feet wide, jagged, pale and unstable. Scott Tracy slowed their tractor at its northernmost edge, repeating for himself and John the new battle plan.

"Okay: forward another ten feet, drop the ice hooks and counterweights to keep her steady, then winch a manned rescue basket down the lower hatch."

Here, Scott paused uncertainly, regarding his injured brother. Like himself, John was exhausted and deeply, numbingly worn.

"Who goes: you, me, or both of us?"

'Both' would make more sense, given that they were rescuing three semiconscious adults (like everything else that day, a first)… except that there would be no one left behind to control the tractor. A bad enough situation on solid ice; potentially deadly, here.

"Both," John decided, pushing tiredly at white-blond hair and grey parka fur. "Some of the Polar crew could come up and… man the cockpit, while we, um… rescue their friends."

John seemed short of breath and, worse, distracted; as though he somehow received many more channels than his older brother could conceive of.

"Maybe," the fighter pilot temporized, "Or_…_ _you_ could stay here, and one of _them_ could join me in the rescue basket."

Scott continued inching their tractor forward, using John's viewport data as a steering guide. Out of the corner of one eye, he watched his younger brother's face. But John was stubbornly hard to read, and always had been. (Even as a baby, he'd kept his own counsel; had rarely cried, and was late to smile.)

"No. I'll come along," John insisted quietly. "There's an MIT guy aboard who… can probably handle shifting gears… and retracting a damn winch cable, Scott. Not dad's preferred operating procedure… but we're shit out of choices, here."

"You're sure?"

It was a major risk, after all, in one of the deadliest places on Earth.

"Yeah. Put us in position… I'll fetch some volunteers."

"FAB," _Damn!_ Virgil's acronym was contagious as a pop song! Almost, he preferred the uncensored version. But there were more important things to worry about, now.

As quick as he dared, balancing the need for haste with the safety of their crowded vehicle, Scott nudged the tractor's blunt-nosed prow over the shifting edge. Two feet… five… ten… and then most of the cockpit hung over gusty, dank ruin, supported only by the weight of her heavily laden rear.

Winds keened and slashed around her, howling like a strand-wolf, waking echoing hums from the exotic-alloy hull. Almost before they'd stopped, though, John deployed the tractor's counter-weight anchors, greatly increasing their stability. There were twelve cabled weights altogether, fired from ports on her sides and rear like rocket-launched darts. The anchors were shaped like fishing arrowheads, possessing strong barbs that slashed out and locked into place once they'd lodged in the glacier's hard 'flesh'. Now, like one of the survival tents, they were safely guy-wired.

"We're dug in," John announced, making a few adjustments to comm and instrument panel, then bracing himself to rise.

Scott nodded.

"Get three you're sure you can trust… a doctor, if possible. I'll open the hatch."

John grunted assent and left the cockpit, moving like a tired old man.

_Okay, great_… _Entirely new vistas of 'ouch', here…_

By this time, he was ready to swear off breathing, much less walking around. Fortunately, the connecting hatch between forward compartment and rear hold was button-press automated; John didn't think he could have forced a dogging wheel or lock bar. Not the way his side was acting.

The hatch opened and he trudged on through, feeling like he was being filleted with a rusty knife. Almost immediately, a crowd gathered, full of questions he didn't want to answer.

Fred Darson strode up, with Dr. Floyd. Just what he needed… pretty much. She looked at John and scowled, correctly gauging his sorry-ass condition. Before she could start in, though, John cut her off, saying,

"Hey. We're short some people to help, um… pull three survivors out of a crevasse. Not much time."

Being scientists, they were quick to grasp the situation, and swift to respond.

_"Charlie!"_ Fred called over one shoulder, waving an arm. The flesh of his nose and cheeks was dark with frost bite, his voice scratchy-hoarse. "Need a hand, over here!"

As Charlton Walker limped grimly forward, John turned to Sharon Floyd, who still hadn't lost her frown.

"Doctor, you'll want… a medical kit… I think."

"Absolutely, Ian," the middle-aged black woman nodded. "And, directly after we pull this off, I'm anesthetizing your stubborn butt. You're going to get some rest, mister, if I have to tie you down to insure it!"

_Yeah_. _Whatever_.

"Only three more survivors?" Darson inquired anxiously, once they'd left the crowded hold. "What happened to the others, Ian? Are they out in the other tent? When do we reach it?"

He was a bearded man and somewhat stocky, with a geologist's philosophic sun-squint.

John hesitated. What was he supposed to say to them? He'd rather have lied, but when all the cards were dealt, the only thing left was the truth.

"There's no other tent to reach, Mr. Darson. It's gone." And then, "I'm sorry."

Fred… all of them… stood around looking like they'd developed slow leaks.  
"Gone? Are you sure?" Charlie whispered, reaching for the young man's parka sleeve.

John twitched aside, a mistake because…

A) It hurt like burning hell

And…

B) It triggered another harsh coughing fit.

Nothing you could do, then, but grit your teeth and endure, letting others prop you up until the final spasm eased. But, like Scott, he refused to give up or go down; not before the job was done.

Weird… less than seven months earlier he'd been enrolled at Princeton, juggling classes, his girlfriend, and a viciously demanding blackmailer. Now he was trying to save lives, being slowly speared to death by his own ribs, down at the bottom of the world.

…And he very much wished he had better news.

As he and the three Polies entered the cockpit, John repeated,

"Sorry. The other… tent is gone. Nothing at their last recorded position but a… deep crevasse. These three we're after must've… survived the fall."

"Stop talking," Dr. Floyd ordered gruffly, though much of the snap was gone from her voice. _Twenty people…_

Up front, Scott (introduced by John as 'Aaron') explained the basics of the tractor's control system, then used his security code to enable a new driver. Darson and Walker would monitor the cabin, while Dr. Floyd waited at the lower hatch to man the winch and receive incoming victims. She didn't much like Ian's obvious deterioration, nor the way their unsupported cockpit bobbed and swayed with each wind gust, but they weren't exactly oversupplied with options, just then. Nothing for it but to shut up, do the job, and hope for the best, she figured. After all, these kids were professionals… weren't they?

Scott had gotten the volunteers seated and prepped; had seen to it that the scowling doctor was harnessed and tethered, just in case. Underneath them, below the open hatch and flickering shield door, a mini rescue basket hung twisting in shrill, white space.

"Ready?" he asked his brother, who honestly seemed anything but.

Once again goggled and masked, John merely nodded.

"Okay. Down, then sideways, get 'em and go. I do the legwork; you stay in the basket to catch what I send, and try not to move any more than you have to. Got it?"

John gave another brief nod, so Scott extended an access ladder, then made his way down, out through the soap bubble environment shield and into the swaying basket. The ladder thrummed and shook beneath his gloved hands and booted feet. Unprotected flesh would have frozen to it immediately, but Scott was well covered; harness and tethered into the bargain. That way, he might survive a plunge into the crevasse, or at least have his remains retrieved.

Wiping at his goggles, Scott braced himself in the pendulum-swung basket and craned his head for a look upward. There was the ladder, jumping a bit as someone placed a cautious first step. Up it extended through foggy, blowing whiteness to the groaning bulk of their tractor and a postage stamp square of shifting light; the shield door.

John penetrated the force field and made his descent, somehow not pausing for breath or break. Scott guided his last step… a drop of some two and a half feet… assisting John's balance and clipping his harness to the metal basket by feel. Then, with a quick signal to their borrowed cabin crew, they headed downward.

From about eleven feet to the right of those weakening RFID signals and seventy feet above them, the basket slowly dropped. Scott could see nothing at all above them, now. The tractor had vanished; swallowed up by wind and snow. Further down, however, things were beginning to clear. He could just make out the parka-swathed lump that was John… then the edge of their swinging basket and sudden high walls of splintering, jade-green ice. Damn cold it was, with a constant updraft as wet and musty as an old meat locker.

Around them, the crevasse creaked and bent, sending long ice shards hurtling downward like knives. Scott was not a particularly imaginative or religious man, usually trusting to instinct, training and preparation rather than prayer, but there are very few atheists in a foxhole. Just to stay on the safe side, he mumbled a half-recalled litany.

As rock and water rumbled away below them and blizzard winds howled above, Scott reached over and touched his brother's shoulder. He'd have said something, maybe, but their basket ground to a sudden halt against the promised three-foot ledge.

Proceeding according to plan, Scott gave those above a quick thumbs-up and line-tug. Then he oriented himself with his wrist beacon, opened the basket's gate, and stepped carefully forth.

"_Luck,"_ John wished him, over their short-range comm link. Scott waved, answering,

"You, too," before heading out.

Here, at least, you could see; though the glacier's restless grumbles and lurching were infinitely worse, experienced from within. He'd brought along an ice pole, testing each step with wary probes of the pointed tip before committing himself. Had to look sharp, be extra cautious, because his feet had once more lost sensation and could not feel the ledge.

Hopefully, the three victims were up and ready to go. Virgil was supposed to have called them, if he managed to cut through all the reporters and thrill-seekers trying to reach Maria Duchesne's cell phone.

…But that was a mighty big 'if'.

At this 'shuffle, poke, shuffle' pace, Scott Tracy had gone perhaps seven feet, when he came as close to dying as he ever had in Korea or Kazakhstan. The ice gave forth a deep, booming groan, and then cracked again, sending a hail storm of sharp slivers hissing down around him.

Instinctively, Scott crouched, bringing both arms up to protect his head and neck. Several large pieces struck home, slashing at his parka and thermal suit, and deeply bruising the chilled flesh beneath. Icy debris rattled down for what felt like an hour, pelting ledge, basket, victims and rescuers. At the eventual let-up, Scott was very surprised to find himself in one piece and still on the narrow ledge. John couldn't say the same.

"_Aaron,"_ he heard, close beside his left ear and sharp as a whip-crack.

…And, damn it, he'd lost the ice pole! Getting back to his feet, Scott called aloud,

"Here! You alright?"

"_Yeah… basket's knocked off the ledge, is all… Going to try… hooking myself back… back over."_

Scott resumed inching along the precipice.

"Be careful," he warned. "You might j- just pull yourself… out of the thing… if you're n- not properly braced."

…And with broken ribs, there was no way his stick-thin brother could hope to climb a tether. He'd hang there till someone got to him, or he froze.

"_Good point." _Every heart-warming once in awhile, John actually listened. _"Plan B: I'll, um… see if they c- can't… winch me back up, some. Try again."_

"Sounds like a w- winner, 'Ian'… Keep me posted."

Their conversation helped keep him going, shoving rumbling ice and rushing water to the corners of Scott's mind.

"_Got it,"_ he heard, a moment later. _"Tapped morse code on... on the basket line. We're back in business."_

"Good job," he replied, surprising his younger brother, who wasn't much used to compliments. Then, rounding a sudden dogleg in the rippled green ice wall, he came upon the trapped, half-frozen scientists. Scott reached forth to give someone a quick, gentle shake.

"Gentlemen… Ma'am… Heard there was s- someone here in need of… a lift?"

They stirred a bit, managing to focus on the new voice. Maria had been dreaming of a warm, late Sunday breakfast with her husband and children; she was slowest of all to wake. Jake and Randy helped her up and got her moving after their rescuer tethered them all together. She wanted so badly to sleep, though; for Mike, Josh, Peggy and a plate full of blueberry Crepes Suzette were waiting there, out on the veranda.

"Just a little bit farther, Ma'am," someone told her (he sounded like Michael).

"They're here?" Maria whispered blurrily. She could still smell crisp-thin pancakes, western omelets and hot coffee.

"Yes, Ma'am… this way."

Just behind her, Randy Clark kept his hands on Maria's waist, saying,

"One foot in front… front of th' other, MD… Start moving, woman."

At the end of the line, Jake Morrow repeatedly lost focus, tiredly forgetting where he was headed, till the tether's sharp tug got him going. Twice, he nearly walked off the ledge, convinced that he'd heard music and laughter somewhere off to the left. Both times, he was saved; once by Randy, once by returning good sense. He, too, had a family… a wife and new baby that he very much wanted to see again. So, onward. As Randy had put it, _'One foot in front of the other',_ until the repositioned rescue basket came into view, at last.

Scott Tracy handed his charges over to John, who got them settled in before the fighter pilot stepped aboard. Five people made for a tight fit, but there simply wasn't time for more than one trip. Not safely, anyhow.

_Mission accomplished…_ Scott said to himself, hardly daring believe that they'd actually done it. He signaled Dr. Floyd with another tug at the slack cable (for some reason, long-range comm wasn't working well). Almost immediately, the line quivered, tautened and began to vibrate. Their basket then rose from its ledge, creaking and swinging back upward.

And then, as if loath to release them, the crevasse moved once more, its sides grinding suddenly, violently, closer. A fetid, sulfurous gas bubble gusted up from below, reeking of ancient decay. Scott gagged, eyes streaming despite his goggles.

John was too tightly strapped for deep coughing, but what little he managed sent spasms of pain (of the 'chew off a limb' variety) shooting straight through him. He stumbled to one side of the basket and leaned over its edge, tasting sulfur and blood and synthetic yarn as he stared down the crevasse's whirling black throat.

Not cut out for this, maybe?

_Understatement of the damn century…_ And something was very much wrong. He couldn't seem to breathe; feeling a heavy, sodden rattle, instead, each time he fought to inhale.

Up in the tractor, Sharon Floyd had prepared herself for three patients, but she wasn't really surprised to get four.

"Pneumothorax and cyanosis," she snarled, upon seeing Ian's blue face and hearing the characteristic wet flopping sounds of a collapsed lung. "Occasionally spontaneous in tall, slim males… but current probable cause direct trauma from broken ribs."

With help from the patient's rescue partner, she tugged loose his parka and outer clothing. Lord Almighty! There were three others requiring her attention, but this idiot child had to drive himself into the emergency ward, forcing everyone else to wait! Quickly, Sharon placed an ear against his chest and palpated, hearing, as expected, a sort of cellophane crackling noise. Escaped air, trapped between the collapsed lung and chest wall. Just to be sure, she tapped at his chest with two fingers, still listening closely.

"Air in the pleural cavity, diagnosis confirmed by hyperresonance upon percussion of the chest. Oxygen and thoracocentesis are indicated," the doctor muttered aloud, removing scissors and a long hypodermic needle from her kit. With a few quick snips, she'd cut off the rib straps. Then, as Fred Darson brought an oxygen bottle, she inserted her needle into the young man's chest cavity and began extracting trapped air. A few minutes later, the injured lung reinflated. Gradually, Ian's color began to return.

"White hair…" Floyd growled, more relieved than she cared to admit. "I'm gonna have _nothing_ but white hair after all this, you little butt, and I'm absolutely gonna sue you for all those beauty parlor bills! Don't think I won't!"

She brushed the hair from his face as she said it, though, so maybe she wasn't all _that_ mad. John would have thanked her again, but the oxygen mask and some really bad ribs prevented it. Scott did it for him, shaking the woman's hand before limping back to the driver's seat. Then, as their tractor rumbled to life, darkness closed in like tumbling dark velvet, and John fell asleep.


	40. 40: Success

Hi, all. Freshly edited.

**40: Success**

_Tractor 2, on the ice, by a gaping crevasse and four emptied tents-_

The lower hatch was sealed and their rescue basket stowed when Scott Tracy left his injured brother to head forward. John was in a doctor's care, and no one else present could guide the overloaded tractor to Thunderbird 2. Despite a heavy load of qualms, then, it made no sense for Scott to remain.

Up front, he settled into the driver's seat, feeling each bruise, pulled muscle and partly-thawed limb. More than just tired, he hurt all over and was _still_ cold. Whatever he'd thought of his father's tropical island in the past, it was starting to look good, now.

The seat was still warm and slightly dented from Fred Darson's occupancy. And that was another thing; how Jeff Tracy was going to take his son's decision to recruit civilians, the pilot could well imagine. Most probably, his father was going to erupt. Still… not like he'd had much of a choice.

A quick palm-scan and button press released the tractor's anchor cables, freeing her to move. Now, Scott tapped the accelerator pedal and began backing away from the crevasse's crumbling edge. There was no hurrying this part; the glacier was stressed, liable to fracture anywhere along its length, including directly below them. He had to be patient.

Steering with one hand, he brought up the comm with his other, or tried to. Instead of voices or signals, though, Scott picked up a solid wall of white noise; an almost total comm blackout. No Virgil, no dad… not even the Air National Guard was responding. Worse, his scan-overlays (the readouts and false-color visuals programmed onto the viewscreen by John) had vanished. Scott could see nothing before him but surging, clawing whiteness.

_Wonderful._

Beneath his parka hood and woven ski mask, he scratched at his scalp. He knew Virgil's coordinates and could navigate his way back to Thunderbird 2 blind, if he had to. But getting lost wasn't the biggest hazard Scott faced; his true obstacle was the ice, itself.

_Damn._

He didn't want to do it; the last thing his younger brother needed now was to be dragged into action, again. But only John stood a chance of repairing this mess… and asleep or awake, _he_ was in danger, too, if Scott headed back without guidance. Yet again, no choice.

Reluctantly, Scott Tracy finished backing the tractor, shifted to park and unstrapped to go aft. He was going to catch hell from Doctor Floyd…

"You're kidding me!" She snapped, straightening from the frost-bitten feet of Leanna Pace.

"No, Ma'am, I'm not," Scott replied, before the doctor had time to boil over. "I _know_ Ian needs rest; we all do. But, his rest's likely to turn permanent if I don't get that comm up. I can't do it myself, and I'm pretty sure you can't, either."

Sharon Floyd shook her head, but entirely failed to relent.

"That's beside the point, 'Aaron'. Amundsen-Scott is a research station. We have programmers all over the place." Jerking an aggressive thumb over one shoulder at the huddled, coffee-sipping crowd, she added, "Shanghai one of _them_."

"I can't. Minding the tractor is one thing, Dr. Floyd. Rooting around its computer is very much different."

For one thing, a stranger would take forever figuring things out. Even Hackenbacker had admitted that John had a quirky, hard-to-follow programming style. A civilian would only make matters worse.

"Look," Scott tried again, as the doctor's face shifted into grimmer lines, still. "He's not going to be exerting himself. Just tapping a few keys… and I promise that he can go straight back to bed, afterward."

Sharon finished treating Leanna's feet, wrapping them in loose, sterile gauze to keep off debris. To the younger woman's hazy, hushed 'thank you', she responded with a quick shoulder pat. Ahmet Khalid had broken one of his numbed fingers, and should have been next in the triage line, but…

"You're crazy," she told their earnest-seeming rescuer. "And I want it on record that I advised against this idea in the _strongest possible terms."_

"If anything happens, Ma'am, we won't hold it against you, but there's no time to waste arguing. _Please_ wake Ian up. We have _got_ to get moving."

Sharon Floyd sighed.

"I'll be right with you, Kiddo," she said to young Ahmet (much of whose pain was soothed by the very near presence of Sarah Darson).

"I'll be fine, Doctor," he said, not really minding, if it meant that Sarah had a reason to keep fussing over him. In fact, the look in his large, dark eyes was actually grateful.

Doctor Floyd gave Ahmet an aspirin and a tense answering smile. Then, clearly angry, she returned to Ian Matthews' folded-blanket bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Jeff struggled mightily against rage on the one hand, and gathering panic on the other.

"What do you mean, '_cooperate'_?" he demanded, forgetting that his distorted voice and image would not convey anger to WorldGov's security commissioner. Over the flickering, briefly enabled comm line, all that came across was a simple request for information.

Commissioner Yale smiled approvingly.

"You've chosen most wisely, Sir. In return for a cessation of jamming, you are advised to disclose your full identities, location, funding source and technical specs. You will also consult in the future with myself or Commissioner Dupree, should any further such 'missions' be contemplated."

Jeff would have liked to break the connection then and there, to hang up on the smugly beaming Yale. Judging from her rigid expression, his mother wanted to do the same. Not yet, though. Not while the boys were still in danger. Swallowing a fierce burden of pride, Jeff said,

"Commissioner, I'm going to have to consult with my advisors and technicians on how best to meet your… requests. Please stand by."

An obvious stall tactic, Jeff would have thought, but the still-smiling official fell for it.

"Of course, Sir. We await your transfer of data, anticipating tremendous mutual gain."

_Over my lasered corpse,_ Jeff thought. But aloud he said only,

"Right you are, Commissioner. Just let me place you on hold for a moment, while I get things rolling."

With a swift, angry button-jab, Yale's image was frozen onscreen; fleshy, broad and beaming.

"You ain't really planning to turn all this over, are you?" Victoria Tracy asked at once, gesturing around the command center/ office.

Jeff gave her a wintry smile.

"IR's not such a damn-fool idea after all, Mother?" he suggested.

Grandma Tracy pursed her lips very slightly. While she was never actually _wrong,_ she did sometimes change her mind. Nothing more than female prerogative, that.

"Not if it saves lives, Jeffery. If you're out there doing good, then I expect that I'm proud enough to add my bit to this rescuing business. Question is, how are you planning to break free of this communication mess? You can't string WorldGov along forever."

Underneath the frail exterior and coarse language, his mother was diamond sharp and extremely intelligent, and Jeff was more than happy to have her support. He mused, half to himself, half to her,

"This is one of those backdoor jobs; one of John's specialties. My gut tells me that he's already got something in place to deal with the situation… though I can't imagine why he's waiting so long to apply it. Too busy with rescue duties, possibly."

On future missions, he decided, John needed to remain separate; someplace central, yet well out of the line of fire. In the meantime, though…

"We need to send WorldGov a decoy. Something huge and hopelessly scrambled that will distract them long enough for the boys to get clear."

_But, what sort of something?_

A musical voice, soft as rainfall, said,

"M'sieur… Madame…?"

Like a black-haired, dark-eyed wraith, TinTin Kyrano emerged from behind a piece of large furniture. In one slim hand, she held a pink-and-chrome data storage device. After a quick, nervous swallow, she blurted,

"Mille pardons for my disturbing presence, mais… I have here the hundreds of hours of music and videos, with also the complete three seasons of 'Beach House'. If you think it worthy to try, M'sieur, these may be copied and crypted and then, peut-etre, sent forth?"

The girl seemed ready to wilt beneath Jeff Tracy's stern gaze. Then grandma pulled out an iPod of her own. A green one.

"Damned if I ain't got one, too! Loaded up with every episode there ever was of Lake Woebegone Days and the Lloyd Carver show, outta K103, Cheyenne, Wyoming. I like your thinking, girl. You can come sit by _me_. Jeffery, what have you got loaded up in the house movie library?"

By this time, Jeff had started to smile.

"Sparing no expense since the boys arrived," he quipped, all at once looking rather sly, "I bought up everything that MGM, Dreamworks, Warner Brothers, Fox and New Line had to offer. And that's not even counting the house and garden mood music. If we combine and encrypt all three of our files, mix them up into one indigestible lump and then send, WorldGov might not know they've been tricked for hours."

He glanced anew at TinTin, saying,

"Good job, young lady."

A girl of proper breeding was to be quiet, unassuming, graceful and calm… but TinTin didn't feel so. Instead, as she stepped forward to hand in her storage device, the girl wanted almost to caper and shout. Despite what her Papa might think of her, she'd done well; someday, might she not go forth on the missions, as well? Just then, to the jubilant child, most anything seemed possible.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2-_

John had hovered at the shadowy verge of a dream, one influenced by the chaotic mix of sounds which penetrated his fitful sleep. He wasn't drugged, after all; just injured and exhausted.

His dreams were correspondingly odd, featuring a quantum fortune teller who printed out _'You will be wealthy and famous for the next fifteen years'_ on the back of his left hand. Then, she vanished, dematerializing in a swirling fog of transverse magnetism, quantum dots and titanium-sapphire pump lasers. After that, things only got stranger. The scarlet-hung tent where she'd uttered her prediction turned into a very tall, solitary mountain peak; someplace so high and far removed that people became no more than random, assortable data points. Weird.

Something… a sudden, light touch… summoned him from his post on the distant crag. Doctor Floyd, with Scott.

"Ian...? Can you hear me, Ian?"

John said nothing (he was still on oxygen, and his chest hurt) but he opened his eyes and looked a silent question at Scott.

"Don't say anything," his brother ordered. "Comm and scan are both down, and I need to know if you can come up front a minute and fix things."

Okay. Wasn't sure he could move that far, but John nodded, anyhow. What the hell, huh? Roll the dice, and see what happens...

Doctor Floyd wouldn't look at him. Scratch the earlier notion, John decided; she _was_ mad.

"Sorry," he would have said had standing up not converted one entire side of his body into a solid knot of pain. Somehow, he made it up front, breathing shallow, moving slow. Out the hold, into the cab, one step at a time, with Scott and Dr. Floyd beside him.

…Sort of an out-of-body experience, about the chair. _Somebody _sat down and got strapped in. Took John a moment or two to realize that it was _him._ Then, a second or so longer to focus. Telemetry first, he reasoned, because the tractor could then start moving…

…Except that his readouts and data came from satellites, buoys and weather stations, none of which were accessible due to someone's goddam broad-range jamming. At this point, John muttered something rude and unprintable in several dozen languages, stopping when he got to Khoisan, which didn't really have words for that concept. Good people in the Kalahari, obviously.

Okay… plan B: First the comm, _then_ his scan overlays, starting with a little research. The jamming signal proved to be powerful, but unsubtle as a dump truck. Trackable, too.

While Dr. Floyd took a pulse at his neck (annoying as hell but, he supposed, her job), John used one of his new traceroute programs to source the corrupting signal. (No sense alerting the FBI with an old one.)

Slipping quickly past all the noise, he arrived in thirty hops at the IP address of a mainframe registered to WorldGov.

_Nice_.

John could visualize the setting, picturing some windowless disk-farm filled with IT suits (cigarette butt, cold coffee and hemorrhoid types) right in his crosshairs.

The hunt had occupied less than five minutes, most of that spent finessing his way past a gauntlet of punchy firewalls. Now for the shut-down strike, best achieved with a sneaky virus (also new). He chose omnivore.exe, which included a fountain algorithm, root-kit and a password-reset command. Ugly, but effective.

The job was a simple matter (once the doctor quit playing with his damn oxygen mask) of mailing omnivore to an insecure, but trusted, online commerce site, then letting it go to work. Once freed, it replicated and spread like the bubonic plague, locking up one hard drive after another and copying pre-selected data files. After all, there was no such thing as too much information.

As programmed, omnivore took the shortest, most rapid possible path, stopping just one jump away from the WorldGov mainframe. Next, the big computer's power and internet access commands were remotely disabled; preventing their simply shutting it off. Rather than finish the job, though, omnivore sent a quick, one-word message: _STOP._

Maybe they'd listen, maybe they wouldn't. If they did, good; they'd learned something, and their box would be returned at once to normal (less a bit of interesting data). If they didn't… well, he had omnivore's big brother handy, as well.

John pictured cigarettes tumbling from slack-startled mouths. Maybe a dropped coffee cup or two. Naturally, they'd try a few countermeasures…

Ten seconds later, the jamming ceased, all at once and across the board. Comm went up, bringing with it a flood of anxious voices and critical telemetry.

The viewscreen once again flowered with pressure, stress, temperature and wind speed data, as well as a simulated icescape. Scott said something, then, but John avoided eye contact, having to deal with a very warm burst of… well, he guessed he was happy, or something. Bad idea to get too pleased with yourself, though. Anything could happen, next. Literally, anything. And he might not be as successful a second time. So, just like Scott's old batting coach had always said: play smart, protect the plate and be cautious. No celebrations till the game was won.

When his older brother repeated…

"Good work, John. No idea how you did it, but we're up and running. Thanks."

…he simply nodded. All of this stuff (his own pride and success, Scott's compliment) went deep into lock-down storage, where no one else could touch it.

As for Scott Tracy, _he_ first contacted Virgil, then Island Base, meanwhile pulling the tractor around 180 degrees. Time, at last, to head back and go home.


	41. 41: Long Way Home

Okay... re-re-edit, and an epilogue still to come. Thanks for your patience and reviews, all.

**41: Long Way Home**

_The World Unity Complex, Pico de Aneto, Spain-_

Commissioner Yale had waited eagerly for the transmission from International Rescue. So eagerly, in fact, that he'd decided to forgo an important lunch meeting to await his data's arrival. Not in his plush office, nor the main comm center, either; for both, in his current frame of mind, seemed terribly insecure.

Instead, Commissioner Yale chose to accept transmission in the little-used Equality Chamber, through a freshly opened, secure comm line. He wanted no signal loss, you see, no chance of interception.

One other was present in the chamber at the time, because Yale wished to make a gift of his information to President Moreira, and the fewer who knew what he'd won, the fewer who stood to gain. Thus, his burning need to single-handedly reign in the high-tech international scofflaws. Or… _almost_ single-handedly. Again, someone else _was_ in the room.

Had he been at all skilled with electronic media, Andrew Yale would not have required the services of a Clerk-II nobody like 'Penelope Coates', and her presence irritated him, necessary or not, for it hinted at inadequacy. On the bright side, the chit of a girl was at least comely; blonde and very British. A good thing, too, as Yale required even his accidental companions to be scenic (not unlike his current surroundings).

The World Unity Complex had been constructed on the Pyrenees Mountains of northern Spain. Its lacy webwork of offices spanned the air between peaks, or tunneled far beneath the craggy mountainside. A beautiful thing, glittering with lights and busy as an ant heap, roiling with transports, messages, bureaucracy and commerce; headquarters of the recently established World Government.

Located deep within this modern marvel, the Equality Chamber was perfectly round, with a high ceiling that displayed a real-time image of the slowly turning Earth. Its floor was black porphyry, polished to a mirror's gleam, so that the Earth seemed at once above and below you. A pretty room, but distracting and not much frequented due to its distance from the main passage. Its furnishings consisted mainly of an ebony table with ivory panels depicting the cultures of the world, a few soft leather arm-chairs and a small computer station.

There was a wet bar, too, hidden from view behind ebony bi-fold doors. But Commissioner Yale was too impatient, too engrossed now, to drink. All he wanted was his spoils; the priceless data from a subdued and annexed International Rescue.

The seated technician looked up when a light on her console flashed. A new window had opened on the monitor screen, indicating that something very large awaited acceptance.

"Commissioner," the pretty technician murmured, "I do believe that your message has arrived. It is quite large, however. Shall I apply the usual…?"

"Open it, girl!" he blustered, just about vibrating with greed. "I am perfectly cognizant of the packet's size and encryption. Open it, I say!"

Had she expected a few lines of Standard English, or a mere website? Well and good; small people earned correspondingly weak salaries, and dreamt sordid little dreams. Better that she remain in ignorance. Penelope Coates was not the usual Equality Chamber communications clerk, or she'd have known better than to speak up, thus. Yale expected compliance, not independent thought.

The young technician returned to her comm screen and keyboard, her calm, beautiful features revealing nothing. Adjusting her headset, she replied,

"Of course, Commissioner. Pray forgive me."

_His_ look-out, then, if some titanic mish-mash of utter dreck slowed communications to a slumping crawl throughout the Complex; Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward had more important matters to attend to, for abler masters than Andrew Yale, and bigger targets than a job-lot of scruffy 'heroes'.

The soft click of long nails on plastic, the shifting play of screen-glow on porcelain skin, and a single, clear chime preceded her next bland announcement.

"The data are loading, Commissioner, just as you requested."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2, the crowded hold-_

'Unhappy-go-cursed', Drew had called them both, and maybe she was right. Certainly, he seemed to experience more than his share of… well… _situations._

He'd been dreaming about her, on and off, as he skipped like a stone across the murky edge of consciousness. She'd been half-kissing, half-biting his neck, her black hair brushing his shoulder, left arm and chest. It felt good, which was sort of surprising. Sex, like eating, was inherently messy and organic; you wouldn't _think_ it was all that compelling a process until (more or less accidentally) you tried it. Then it turned out to be as diverting and occasionally necessary as food. Weird.

Of course, he knew that he was dreaming, but something down there in the subconscious junk heap was willing to admit how badly he missed her, so John simply let the dream continue.

It was just a little after they'd finished, and he was momentarily spent; eyes shut, half asleep, hazy-content. And then she'd whispered, still tucked up against him,

"Tracy…?"

"Hmm…" (Why did she always want to _talk?)_

"What do you think of babies?"

_Babies?_ Waking just a little, he thought back to Virgil and Gordon.

"I think they're noisy and incontinent, with piss-poor conversational skills. Why?"

Drew hadn't answered, immediately. For a few moments, all he'd heard was the air conditioner, the computer's cooling fan, his fish tank, and her quickened breathing. Then,

"I just thought… I mean…"

Autumn Drew rolled over and sat up, looking ghostly faint in window-slatted light.

"What if we moved out of the dorms, Tracy? Got an apartment, maybe initiated development on a kid? You know… a real life, like regular people?"

_Umm…_

"What's wrong with the way things are, now?"

John, too, sat up, feeling totally unprepared. He had nothing… no plan at all… worked up for this scenario. What was he supposed to say?

She pushed a strand of hair out of her face, looking something that wasn't exactly angry, but wasn't happy, either… and he really hoped that she wasn't about to cry. Not much in the arsenal for that one, either.

"I dunno… nothing's _wrong_ with it, I guess. It's just… we've been together for almost three years, now, Tracy, and I was thinking maybe… we could advance to the next level, you know?"

If dreams were real, he could fix the past. If dreams were real, he'd have come up with something smarter to say than…

"Why?"

Except that he never finished the conversation, real or not. A hissing, whispered argument slashed through its tissue like Japanese steel. Worse, an argument over _him._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tractor 2, the cockpit-_

Scott kept his mind on the task at hand, mostly. As best he could, he shut up and drove, avoiding weak spots and pitfalls with the help of John's telemetry. He had to curve about three-quarters of a mile out of his way, at one point; cutting westward to avoid a field of impassible pressure ridges, a side trip that cost him forty more minutes, but probably saved all their lives.

…And Virgil was suddenly, maddeningly, tumbled-rush talkative.

"So, everything's pretty much repaired, and, boy, am I glad you guys are okay! Dad's been calling for updates every thirty seconds, and I'm running out of polite ways to say: _stand_ _by_."

Scott's headache was back, creeping from its lair at the base of his skull to claim new territory behind his snow-strained, stinging eyes. Great. One brother down, the other energetically remodeling Thunderbird 2. Life just kept getting better.

"Virge," he said, with laudable restraint, _"not now._ I'm too busy driving to hear confession, so get back to business, please. Adjusting for the detour, ETA in approximately 10 minutes."

"Uh… that'd be 10 minutes, 21 seconds by my tracking system," his younger brother corrected him, splitting hairs with laser precision. "Unless anything _else _goes wrong."

At that point, massive solar flares could have cut their comm and flash-melted the entire glacier, sweeping them away in a giant flood, and Scott's only response would have been, _"Uh-huh... figures."_

Flying a rescue mission with relatives was certainly different from leading a wing.

"Once again, Virgil: _not_ _now_."

"Sorry. Just trying to be accurate. I'll keep the door cracked and the porch light on."

A sentiment Scott appreciated, but only grunted at. _Definitely,_ not the same as leading a wing…

For more than one reason, as it turned out. Back in the passenger hold, a confrontation had begun, and matters were growing tense. James Chen was a US Navy captain. Having found a way to recharge and upgrade Maria Duchesne's cell phone, Chen had immediately called a superior officer, meaning only to let his division and family know he'd survived, and was on his way home. The trouble began shortly thereafter. Per Admiral Cunningham, Chen was ordered to image the interior of the craft he rode in, as well as the uniforms and faces of any potential terror agent/ hostage-takers. More importantly, he was commanded to learn the status and location of that critical nuclear reactor core, and to sabotage any attempt at its 'capture'. Naturally, he informed the others.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Charlton Walker growled, when Jimmy pulled him aside. "No one's a hostage here, and nothing's been captured! These people risked their lives to save ours… one of them's over there, injured too badly to move… yet you _seriously _believe they're a bunch of terrorists? What do they feed you guys, back at Annapolis? Raw meat and shredded kittens?"

Chen stood his ground.

"Those fuel rods could be sold on the black market, or converted for use as a dirty bomb. The possibility exists, Charlie, and I have _orders_."

"Yeah? Well, I've got common sense, and I wasn't required to hand in my brain to receive a damn uniform. So, (listen carefully, now) _hell_ no_."_

At the center of the crowded, rumbling hold the two men stood toe-to-toe. James Chen was younger and almost a head taller, Charlton Walker a study in solid, no-nonsense middle age. Although they'd tried to keep their voices down, others heard and began to gather.

"Who's taking hostages?"

"What bomb?"

And…

"Did I hear someone refer to one of my patients?" (That was Dr. Floyd, just returned from seeing to Maria, Jake and Randy.)

"No!"

"_Yes_." (Talking over one another.)

"Charlie," Susan Povey cut in warily, stepping between them. She worked for Raytheon, mostly at tending the former station's reactor. "You have to admit the possibility that Jimmy's right. We don't know the first thing about these people."

Fred Darson now pushed his way to the fore of an increasingly agitated crowd.

"Nothing except that they half-killed themselves rescuing _us._ If they were genuinely up to no good, Sue, they could have left us here to freeze and just _taken_ the damn reactor core! But, tell you the truth, looking around at all this sci-fi technology, my guess would be that a couple of used fuel rods are small potatoes to these guys. Think about it!"

"Okay, then," Chen scowled, his almond eyes narrowing, "let's talk that one over, Fred. Where'd this bunch come up with technology so far superior to ours? And who _are_ they, anyhow? I don't see any uniforms or American flags."

Said Kirsten Hill, a slender, self-possessed microbiologist,

"You Yanks are rather taken with yourselves, aren't you? Why, precisely, American? Why not a Union Jack, or the ruddy Tricolor, if it comes to that? They did say _International_ Rescue, as I recall. Perhaps they are simply non-partisan."

"All that's beside the point," Dr. Floyd snapped. "Chen, you make a move toward my patient and I will _personally_ extract some ribs for transplant. You look about the right size," she added, giving his chest a mock-appraising squint.

It was while Chen was distracted by Sharon's finger-pointing theatrics that Ahmet Khalid snatched the camera phone, tossing it to Sarah Darson, who passed it to Charlie. He also blocked Chen's subsequent lunge, being quite large enough to stop the other man.

"I said _no,_ and I meant it," Charlton Walker repeated emphatically, around Ahmet's right shoulder. "I'm not returning evil for good just because you've developed a severe case of cranial-rectal inversion."

Leaning forward, slightly, he continued,

"No pictures, no sabotage, _period._ The only real issue here is whether you're going to wise up, Jimmy, or wind up restrained."

Karen Simenski had gravitated to Charlie's side. Smiling thinly, she said,

"We have a procedure for that, at NASA. It involves lots of bungi-cord and duct tape, and I've been dying to try it out."

Jimmy Chen looked around. On his side, now, were only his assistant, Lt. Danvers, Susan Povey, and a loose handful of others.

"There are going to be repercussions, Charlie," he said; his gaze cold and hard.

Walker snorted rudely.

"I'll blow that bridge up when I get to it, Chen. I'm not afraid of the US Navy, or WorldGov, either. The worst they can do to me is cut off my funding. Now, sit down, shut up and enjoy the ride. Ahmet, keep an eye on him."

Dr. Floyd had been standing in such a way as to shield Ian from view. She'd seen enough of that 'watch' he wore to realize that it was some sort of comm device, one he could use to summon help, maybe. Glancing back at him, now, she saw the young man's reddened hand slip away from the watch face, and she relaxed just a bit.

Curly-haired Ahmet (with his nearly-solid line of dark eyebrows, and snapping-turtle reflexes) was in place beside Chen. Good enough.

Dr. Floyd went over to Ian's side, crouched down and checked his vital signs and general alertness, saying,

"Hot times in the ol' hold tonight, huh? Actually, I wish it _was_ hot. After this, I'm going straight to Key West with all that money you owe me, and open up a little beach-front practice treating STDs and sunburn: 'Clinic on the Sand'. What d'you think?"

His oxygen mask moved a little. Possibly, he'd smiled. Pulse, respiration, blood pressure, temperature and blood-oxygen levels were steady, if not great. Clearly, that little foray to the cockpit had cost him.

"Never mind Jimmy, over there," she told the young man, after having another listen at his bruised and swollen chest. "He isn't usually like this, but strange things happen when scientists put on a uniform. They lose their objectivity. The rest of us know better, believe me."

Just about then, an overhead comm beeped to life, and the other rescuer's disembodied voice filled the hold.

"Okay, folks; find something solid to hang on to. We're headed up the ramp."

_Ramp?_ This was good, wasn't it? Sharon glanced at Ian's face, using one hand to brace him while holding tight to the bulkhead with the other. He didn't seem worried, but then again, this was a hard-headed, stubborn-butt kid with more tech and testosterone than sense. Dr. Floyd tightened her grip, just in case.

The tractor's noise and vibration altered suddenly, as its spiked treads shifted from ice to what felt and sounded like screeching metal. As if they'd begun climbing a loose, slanted rope bridge, the tractor nosed its way upward.

Into what…? The tail end of a C-150, or something else, entirely?

Powerless to stop himself, Ian began slipping along the suddenly tilted deck. Dr. Floyd pinned him with the upper half of her body, jamming one elbow hard against the deck as a brace. Meeting his clouded, barely-there gaze, she thought,

_'You aren't lying to me, are you, sweet pea? I don't want to find out the hard way that Jimmy was right. I hate apologizing to stuffed-shirts.'_

They were nearly over, clattering up into someplace loud and filled with ringing echoes, when the cold-stressed and overloaded ramp snapped in half.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, the cockpit-_

"NO!" Virgil shouted, as the ramp shattered, leaving the tractor's back half swinging unsupported over a 50-foot drop. Beside him, Hackenbacker muttered and cursed, keying instructions to his maintenance bots as fast as his fingers could type. Then the comm crackled to life, barely audible over alarms, rockets and wind.

_"Virge!"_

"I know! Working on it, Scott. Try, um… just throttle up and power forward. I'll strengthen the containment field."

Maintenance bots in their tiny, swarming hundreds poured from the pod. Some were destroyed immediately, finished by raging winds and savage cold, but most reached the dangling tractor. Using clawed pincers, drill bits and magnetic claspers (whatever attachments they'd been operating when reprogrammed) the little bots took hold of tractor 2's brittle, cracking hull, attempting to shore up a growing split.

"_Forward_!" Scott yelled over the hold comm. "_Everybody_ _get_ _as far up front_ _as you can. Into_ _the cockpit, if you have to. Move!"_

No time to do more than scramble, offering hands-up and desperate forward shoves where needed. Not everyone followed orders, though. Dr. Floyd wasn't strong enough to move young Ian, but neither would she leave him.

Over the chaos of shouting people, engines and comm noise, the thousand little hammer-blows of jointed robot legs, Sharon Floyd heard a sound like the sharp report of gunfire, or lightning. The tractor's hull was giving way, the deck's pitch steepening. Overhead, she glimpsed a transverse crack, opening slowly to the frozen whiteness beyond.

She could still jump to the front; hands were being extended, a human chain reaching frantically backward. But if she let Ian go, he'd slip to the very end of the tractor, and if it fell, he'd be alone, possibly dying of his wounds before someone got down there with a rope and rescue basket.

Sharon held tight, closed her eyes and bit her lip. More metal shrieked its way apart, the tractor lurched, and this was going to hurt…

Something pushed at her. Dr. Floyd's eyes flew open. Her patient, foolish to the end, was feebly trying to shove her forward. Then she was seized, and Ian as well, by Ahmet Khalid, Karl Danvers and Aaron, the other young rescuer. She gasped,"Watch his ribs," as they were bucket-brigaded upward.

Perhaps ten seconds later, the back end of their tractor cracked away, hung momentarily twisting on a rope of cords and wires, then crashed to the ice and snapped metal below. Abruptly and terribly the temperature plunged, as screaming wind and killing cold shot inside. Breath seemed to wither and freeze in their lungs, sight and hearing to blacken.

...Until that blessed containment field cut on, once more sealing away the sharp-edged, deadly chill.

For a moment, as maintenance bots hauled what was left of the tractor to safety, no one said anything at all. Too many wetted pants, probably. Then, Ian pushed his air mask off. Cocking a blond eyebrow, he wheezed at the other rescuer,

"Gosh, dad… this is the best vacation _ever."_

Aaron's face took on that look, the one men get when they're trying hard to conceal their emotions.

"Shut up, Wise-ass," he sort of laughed, adjusting his (Brother? Surely, they had to be related…) rescue partner's air mask. "Go back to sleep, before I knock you out with a damn brick."

Another voice came over comm then; male, mid-western accented, and just about cracking with worry.

_"Guys? Scott, John…? You there? Everyone okay?"_

Aaron (or Scott, as he seemed to be) sat back, staring off into some hidden middle distance.

"Yeah… yeah. We're fine. Just… give us a second to collect our thoughts."

_"Okay, you do that, Scott. Me, I'm sick and damn tired of this bottom-of-the-world ice cube tray. Let's get the hell out of Dodge."_

…Which had to rank up there with fire and penicillin as one of the greatest ideas in human history, from Scott's perspective.

"Yeah," he repeated, a bit shakily, "Why don't we call it a day?"

The bass rumble of a slowly settling Bird nearly drowned out Scott Tracy's words, but it hardly mattered. Virgil understood. Ten minutes later, mission accomplished, they were airborne once more, and on their way back.


	42. 42

Sorry about that. Longer than I thought, even at half. Should've just called it another chapter. Very much re-edited, though. The rest... may take awhile.

**Epilogue: Part 1**

_Thunderbird 2-_

Their flight was rocky, but fast. Scott Tracy, back in 2's cockpit, had never been gladder to see the sun; first as a darting gleam through scowling clouds, then a pale and watery disk, silver as pocket change. Latitude brought power, though, converting this drowned reflection to welcome, blazing gold.

Scott was handling the yoke and pedals while Virgil got a cigarette lit. He squinted past all those bright-gilded window cracks at a ruffled, grey-green ocean, and struggled to hold back a yawn. Tired, prior to this, had meant a very long flight, a command quarters all-nighter, or calf-branding time. This was worse… deeper… than all three combined.

"Got it, Scott, thanks," Virgil announced, inhaling nicotine just as quick as he could. A few puffs later, the young man had calmed visibly. When had he become so addicted? Scott would have asked, but he didn't feel like fighting, just then. Instead, he let Virgil take steering control, closing his eyes for just a min…

"…ake up, Scott."

_Huh?_ He mumbled something, rubbing at sandy eyelids and tumbled thoughts. Engine noise, deck vibration… _aircraft._

Scott sat bolt-upright before he quite caught up with where he was and what had happened.

"Wake! I'm wake… what, um… what d'you need, Virge?"

"I _said_, we're almost there."

Indeed, the sun was much higher above the horizon than it had been when he nodded off. Virgil continued,

"John says, and Dad agrees, that we oughta drop off in Sydney, instead of Christchurch, because they won't be expecting us, there. Fewer cameras and complications, if you know what I… Scott? You okay?"

(This last, because Scott was nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion, having serious trouble following his brother's speech. Nothing a few alertness tabs wouldn't fix, though.)

"Yeah. Sydney. Got it."

Scott unstrapped, rose and stretched, feeling his back, shoulders and neck shifting and popping aloud. Stiffer than hell, but at least he was warm…

"Going aft for coffee and aspirin… and…" (Huge yawn) "… to check on John. Want anything?"

Virgil glanced up and over. Still half-following the local comm chatter, he said,

"Bottled water, thanks."

"Coming right up."

On his way aft, Scott wondered how long Virgil had let him sleep. Not that it mattered; he'd have been grateful for half an hour, even. Especially as the kid had to be pretty tired, himself, cigarettes, or no. Fighting to keep Thunderbird 2 aloft and complete repairs in the midst of a blizzard was no joke.

"I owe you, Virge," Scott mumbled, after splashing a little water on his face and visiting the head. One coffee and three alertness tabs later, he was out in the rear crew cabin, headed for his brother's drop-down bunk. He had to step cautiously. There were a great many sick, frost-bitten people squeezed into the compartment's bunks and passenger seats, with more stretched out between.

Scott greeted people as he went past or stepped over, careful not to kick anyone. He found Brains and Dr. Floyd arguing, but wasn't in the mood to referee. Hackenbacker was a big boy, surely able to deal with one bad-tempered physician.

Slipping past the arm-waving (Sharon), finger-jabbing (Brains) confrontation, he finally reached John. His brother lay quiet; weak and pale beneath a peeling sunburn, but alive.

"Hey," Scott greeted him, leaning against an upper berth to peer into John's. "Don't say anything. Just nod, or shake your head. You alright?"

The one-sided shrug and wince combination spoke volumes. Scott grimaced sympathetically.

"That good, huh? Well… we're almost through, and if Dr. Floyd leaves Brains with enough functioning body parts, he'll patch you up, back home. Just… next time, tell the _truth_, got it? Don't leave me guessing in the middle of a critical situation; not when lives are at stake. Lying about your condition isn't heroic, it's _stupid_. Yeah, I know I did the same thing, back in Korea, but I've wised up, and it's time you did, too… No more of that 'go it alone' shit, for either of us. Understood?"

Very slowly, John nodded, murmuring something that sounded like 'Sydney'.

"Yeah. Virgil told me. Good call. But, how about the, um… you know," he jerked his mussed, dark head aft and down a bit, in the general direction of the pod. "The _cargo._ Same place?"

Head shake. Then, after a few seconds' careful breathing, John briefly removed his air mask.

"Nuku Hiva… 'bandoned air field. Tell them, after drop."

_Nuku Hiva?_

"The Marquesas? Yeah, that works. They won't be expecting us, that air field isn't close to anything major, and they're friendly with the US. Something tells me we're still going to be pretty high on the public enemy list, though."

John grunted as he replaced his mask, in a _"well, if they can't take a joke, screw 'em,"_ sort of way.

Scott grinned.

"Right. Some of us are new to the FBI dartboard, John. We get nervous."

And then, because he wanted to offer his brother a gesture of comfort, but wasn't sure how, Scott needlessly adjusted his blanket.

"Hang tight," he said, standing upright, again. "I'll be back to check on you, and our 'combatants', in plenty of time for round three."

Brains and Dr. Floyd were still at it, she questioning his right to practice medicine, at all; he sniping at her status as a lowly general practitioner. If nothing else, the clash of egos was a popcorn-worthy spectacular. Too bad he'd miss most of it. Shaking his head, Scott slipped past unnoticed. By those two, anyhow.

On his way back through the compartment, the fighter pilot was besieged, receiving a great many business cards and scrap-written cell numbers. Quite a few of the rescued scientists weren't just grateful; they were interested in helping out. Maybe, after all, he and his brothers had done well. The question was, what would their father think, once he got the whole story?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Sydney, Australia, and elsewhere-_

Not many cameras were present to record the conclusion of International Rescue's first mission. RAAF Base Richmond had received a scant ten minutes warning, and barely had time to scramble their ambulances, much less a news crew. Still, _some_ footage got out…

In California, an angry, unhappy boy had been thrusting fresh uniforms and underclothes into a monogrammed suitcase. Following the dictates of his father, Jeff Tracy, he was headed to boarding school that year. Someplace up in New York.

"Great! Just frickin' _wonderful!"_

Alan shouted the last word, hoping to be heard over the new-age music and chiming crystals his mom surrounded herself with, these days.

"I'll be stuck in the middle of _nowhere_ with a bunch of dang nerds! With… with probably Stinky Whistle-Cheeks and the Incredible Nose-Miner for roommates! I'll catch pulmonia and be ravaged by squirrels! You won't even have time to say goodbye, 'cause I'll probably _die_ before you get there!"

_Huh?_

His bedroom's entertainment center was on, of course, its TV screen split to display his friendless MySpace, a paused video game and local surf coverage. Something new had come on, though; something Alan recognized.

"Whoa."

A huge, green aircraft (seen through some kind of shaky telephoto lens) was descending onto a runway packed with waiting ambulance and fire trucks.

_It was the ship! The big, butt-kicking spaceship thing from his father's island!_

"Mom! _Hey, mom!"_ Alan dropped the dorky blazer and tee-shirt he'd been holding. Turning, he lunged for the door, but his mother was already there, all hesitant, wisp-blonde and weepy.

Before Alan could speak, Gennine held out a blue mesh grocery bag. Softly, she said,

"I packed you some things, Sweetie… for the trip. Pudding, juice boxes, a few of those power bars you like so much, and a book. It isn't much… I didn't have time, really."

For just an instant, Alan wondered if maybe his mother had lost an argument, on this one. If maybe _she_ didn't want him going off to school any more than he wanted to get sent. Then, he reverted to normal.

Snatching the bag, he tossed it over one shoulder to land atop the pile of school necessaries already crowding his bed.

"Great. Thanks, mom. But, for real, come check out the TV. It's cool, you won't believe it!"

Seizing Gennine's arm, he dragged her over to the noisy, sock-draped entertainment center.

"No joke, mom. I know just what that is _and_ who's inside. I was there when they tested it! Well, okay… me and this chick, but mostly me. You gotta promise not to tell, though."

Gennine's blue eyes grew very wide. She drew nearer the television, listening and watching intently as her young son (the only thing she had in this world) explained what he'd seen.

Over in Sheffield, a number of lads at loose ends for entertainment of a rainy evening played football between an alley wall and an information kiosk. The tall, advert-covered column served as one goal, a pair of metal rubbish bins the other. Thus far, it was James Lane, 3 to 2 over Darlington Court.

The scuffle and scrum of flying elbows and savage kicks… of grunted curses more appropriate to rugby than football… had nearly resulted in a fourth goal for James Lane, when the kiosk's telly screen flashed up.

Among the young footballers, one was tall and quite black, with a bald head and several gold teeth (more to come, too, when he could afford them). His name was Royce Fellows, and he took advantage of his mates' distraction to pop the ball up a bit. Then he leapt three feet into the air for a solid kick. The ball sailed beautifully, clear across the makeshift pitch… not between the bins, but against the leftmost, knocking it onto the ground. Metal clattered against worn paving stones. Rubbish spewed forth in a moist, smelly arc.

"Damn," Royce muttered. "Thought I'd skewered that one."

Of course, with everyone still distracted…

Royce signaled quickly to his best mate, Gordon Tracy. The other lad was shorter, with red hair and a generous, playful way about him. He was also swift to catch a thought.

Cutting around a startled James Laner, Gordon arrived at the still rolling ball and kicked it back through. After all, no one had yet called time. The resulting row all but drowned out the public telly. Then, an adult who'd been seated upon his stoop watching the game (an old pensioner) silenced both teams with a sudden sharp whistle.

" 'Ere, now! Quiet down, you lot! Can't a man 'ear what 'is bloody taxes 'n years o' service 'ave paid f'r? Shut y'r noise!"

With nothing better to do, Royce and Gordon drew closer to the telly, puffing and steaming slightly in the evening's chill drizzle.

"What's 'ee on about?" Royce demanded to know, dribbling their ball from one foot to another against the public kiosk.

Gordon shrugged. Like Royce, he was a swimmer, and had rather overdeveloped chest and shoulder muscles. Not much skill at football, though.

"Hell if I know. Somethin' about th' South Pole, sounds like."

Royce and Gordon watched for a time, intent as another pair in far-off California. Eventually, their ball rolled away down the street, quite forgotten. On screen, a giant miracle of a rescue craft (larger than anything they'd _ever_ seen airborne) was descending upon Richmond Air Base, sending lorries darting off in panicked reverse.

"Blimey," Royce whispered.

Even through the public telly's smeared and staticky window, Thunderbird 2 was a mythic, powerful thing. There wasn't much sound, for someone had long since prised free and sold most of the kiosk's speakers, but the gathering crowd passed on what little they _did_ hear. Also, those folk fortunate enough to possess televisions of their own opened their street-side windows and switched the volume up for everyone else.

"International Rescue," Gordon repeated, for the benefit of old Mrs. Ashram, frail as a shawl-wrapped mouse beneath her stained umbrella. "Or… hang on a bit… perhaps it's "Thunderbirds". Ruddy news folk can't seem to choose."

"Whichever," Royce cut in, turning to face them with a savagely white-and-gold, ear-to-ear grin. "Bloody marvelous, innit? Wouldn't mind 'avin one o' those m'self. Make a lark of gettin' t' class, eh?"

He nudged Gordon, but once again, the redhead simply shrugged, uncharacteristically quiet. He had other wants, just then; a gold medal, recognition, and money enough to take his mum to a real doctor, one who provided more than just platitudes and off-the-shelf painkillers.

"Right," he agreed at last, because his best mate expected it. "Marvelous."

But Gordon Tracy had no more notion of what it would be to fly a Thunderbird than he knew that he was being watched over and searched for. Sheffield and Spain were all that he knew; his mum, his mates and the European men's swim team all he really cared about.

"Shall we get back t' th' match, then?" he asked Royce, craning about to look for their vanished ball. "Chance to run up th' score before th' Laners realize what we're about, if we hurry."

Royce clapped a friendly hand to his shoulder. Most of the televised action was over, anyhow, Thunderbird 2 having lifted off.

"Always thinkin', eh, mate? C'mon, then, before we're spotted. Here's th' plan: we get t' th' ball, you whistle t' resume play, then I make f'r th' goal like Beecham at the World Cup; slam, bam, thank you, ma'am!"

Others noted the event, of course.

In Malaysia, a failed businessman of noble lineage and subtle power leaned closer to his view screen. There were opportunities here, he realized. Vast and lucrative opportunities for anyone swift and ruthless enough to seize them.

Back on the quarter deck of the _HMS Dreadnought,_ Cindy Taylor could only stamp her booted foot and curse. _Her_ opportunity was lost, but International Rescue would be neither forgotten, nor unpursued. All at once, and fixedly, it became Cindy's goal to get footage, an interview… _something._

Lady Penelope scarcely noticed International Rescue's return from Antarctica. She was quite involved with tracing an information leak at WorldGov's highest levels, one that had led to a prime minister's apparent suicide, and the capture of several MI-6 operatives. Blackmail was suspected, but of whom else, and where the incriminating information might be stored, she had yet to ascertain. There were many routes, many personae, through which to achieve an end, however; some of them quite pleasant.

Commissioner Yale got a summons to appear before WorldGov's internal affairs committee. He received notice shortly after the Unity Complex mainframe was hit with a giant, memory-seizing packet _and_ a crippling virus. Having okayed the coded rubbish from International Rescue (without consultation), Andrew Yale had an awful lot to explain. No-one wished to accept responsibility for the jamming decision, and after all, they had to blame _somebody._


	43. 43

Second draft; further editing to follow.

**Epilogue: Part II**

To the deep frustration of WorldGov, Thunderbird 2 proved nearly impossible to track or anticipate. For one thing, she was extremely fast for her size; unexpectedly so. For another, her un-refueled range was far greater than predicted. The US and Royal NZ navies thus concentrated their search-and-capture forces much too narrowly. Christchurch, rather than Sydney, for instance… and who would have posted guard over the Marquesas, a balmy, French-Polynesian island chain over 7000 miles from the Pole?

More unsettling still, "Thunderbird 2" was effectively invisible, not showing up on radar or satellite tracking screens at any wavelength, whatsoever. Certainly, its pilots claimed to be acting in the public interest; did that make super-fast, broad range stealth any more acceptable?

WorldGov's answer was _no,_ considering that at least one person in this "Thunderbird" organization appeared able to hack and manipulate government mainframes; slowing, copying and diverting data at will. Worse yet, as far as the authorities could tell, International Rescue answered to no one. _Nobody_ knew who they were, or how to find them.

The average world citizen was entranced by the thought of anonymous, high-tech heroes; their governments, less so. For, in bureaucratic minds and meeting halls, sheer nervousness had created an army of powerful shadows. The truth would surely have surprised them.

Those who hunted International Rescue would have been astonished to learn that their targets were mere people; that a wealthy widower, with his reclusive genius-in-residence, a former fighter pilot, a hacker/ astronaut, an artist, an Olympic swimmer and a race car driver had set out in secret to save lives. Or would, eventually; much of this lay in the future.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_RAAF Base Richmond, Sydney, Australia-_

Thunderbird 2 touched down like an enormous phoenix; slowly, on columns of white-hot flame. It was grey early morning, and the Australian airmen and medics were quite surprised by the visitation, but quick to respond, nevertheless. Much of their manpower had been committed to chasing wild geese between Antarctica and Christchurch, so Thunderbird 2's arrival _here,_ in supposedly out of reach Sydney, was a jaw-dropping shock.

To the Australians' credit, though, injured victims came before WorldGov arrest orders. They gave Thunderbird 2 permission to land and unload.

Illuminated by spotlights and whirling red ambulance beams, the giant aircraft lowered a ramp and then began disgorging her passengers. As Australian medics and aid workers rushed to meet them, Charlton Walker spoke briefly with Scott Tracy, just within 2's capacious lower boarding hatch.

"I've got your word, Aaron, that you're going to drop those rods off safely?"

He'd taken a long chance on the honor of these young men. As chief engineer to the former South Pole Station, Walker felt keenly responsible for all remaining personnel and equipment; _especially_ those nuclear fuel rods.

Scott nodded reassuringly, accepting Walker's proffered hand.

"Yes, sir," he said; like Charlie, glowing alternately scarlet and white in the rotating glare of gathered emergency trucks. "The rods'll be delivered to an abandoned airstrip in the Marquesas… although we'd appreciate it if you'd sit on that fact for… say… another hour or so. I'd rather be out of the way when WorldGov shows up."

Walker chuckled.

"Not expecting open arms and heartfelt gratitude, I take it?" the scientist asked.

"Realistically? No, sir. We've probably made more enemies than friends, today."

Charlie broke eye contact long enough to survey the scene below them, watching ninety-four colleagues hobble down-ramp to safety.

"You'd be surprised," he said, after a second or two, "how influential the right few friends can be."

Then he shook off his reverie, pushing away thoughts of the twenty who hadn't made it this far, and of the shattered ice station. Straightening slightly, Charlton Walker once again shook Scott's hand.

"Thank you, Aaron. You have my card, and Fred and Sharon's. Anytime you need a materials engineer, a glaciologist or a doctor, give us a call."

And that was an oddly heart-warming statement. Scott smiled tiredly.

"Yes, sir. We'll keep the offer in mind."

When Walker stepped off the end of the passenger ramp, Scott melted back into Thunderbird 2's interior. Not before returning the other man's wave, though.

A strange business, rescues. It seemed you could get awfully invested in the people you'd saved. Did the effect fade with time, he wondered? At this point, Scott had no way to tell, but the actual mission had been nothing like his simulations. Nothing at all.

Too much to think about, now, when he couldn't complete the alphabet without pausing, and they had another dangerous stop to make. Later, maybe.

Inside, with the ramp retracted and the hatch shut, Scott hit his wrist comm, saying,

"Good to go, Virge. Take her up."

The reply blared out over Thunderbird 2's main comm system, rather than just his wrist, for Virgil was speaking to Brains and John, as well.

"FAB. Hang on to your favorite body parts. We're punching straight up."

The echoes had scarcely died when Thunderbird 2 began to vibrate and snarl. A few minutes later, hurled upward by flame and impellers, she'd vaulted far into the star-pricked sky.

Flying from Sydney to the Marquesas took them twelve and a quarter minutes, ending with another sudden (almost ambush) hail and drop-in. Nuku Hiva and the US Navy were informed simultaneously, just as Thunderbird 2 descended upon a cracked and weed-choked airstrip.

Virgil angled his impellers as widely as possible, and _still_ converted what was left of the old runway to shattered, glassy rubble. Nor did the chaos stop there. Flocks of screeching birds shot into the air, wild goats and ponies bolted for cover, and a handful of terrified surfers fell from their boards. The noise and shock went on and on, because Thunderbird 2 never quite landed. She hovered, instead, some twenty feet off the ground, sending waves of pressure in concentric rings through sand, grass and trees.

Up in the cockpit, Virgil and Hackenbacker were focused to the point of rupture.

"H- Hold her steady, Virgil," Brains muttered, bending like a gem-cutter over the drop controls. "We, ah… we've got one f- free shot at this."

Virgil Tracy took a very deep breath. In his head, he ran clear through a set of scales and arpeggios, and right into 'Fur Elise'.

_Patience._

"Doing the best I can, Brains. Make it quick, please."

...Because holding her at such an insanely low altitude was dangerous. Hackenbacker's only reply was a sour, distracted grunt. He was far too busy orchestrating the cargo drop to really respond.

Down in the pod, the fuel rods' coffin was seized by a team of large loading mechanisms; tracked, car-sized robots with extensible grappling arms. At a signal from Hackenbacker, five sets of hold-fast clamps fell suddenly away, allowing the robots to drag their burden forward like workers hauling stone for a pyramid.

Virgil hadn't much time to watch. This close to the ground, Thunderbird 2's tendency to yaw became extra hazardous. A simple wind gust or twitch at the yoke might send her into the mountainside, or careening through the jungle like a massive scythe.

Virgil concentrated deeply, humming scraps of music which the engines' shifting pitch and vibration called to mind.

_Low steering fuel warning… in G minor._

Meanwhile, the robots got their load placed over the pod's drop hatch (a sort of trap-door). At the green ready light, Brains retracted his crew and opened the hatch. All at once unsupported, the coffin fell through, landing with a muffled _boom_ on the bubbling tarmac below.

"G- Go," Hackenbacker commanded, when the locked and shielded coffin was free. Virgil went, clearing the area less than five minutes before the first Navy scout planes roared across the sky.

50,000 feet later, he actually relaxed, going so far as to smile at Brains, whose answering nod was maybe a _little_ less frosty. Sunlight filled the cockpit, glittering ocean flashed past, and home was just over the horizon.

"Shower," Virgil sighed, rolling his head from left to right and back again, to ease his neck strain. "No… food, first; _then_ a shower, and about twelve hours in bed."

Hackenbacker nodded.

"I h- have to admit that, ah… that d- _does_ sound alluring. B- But your, ah… your brother requires treatment, first. I'll be d- doing a considerable amount of laser bone w- welding, before I g- get to bed."

Brains had a package of cheese crackers which (after a stern self-lecture) he shared with the younger man.

"Take good care of him, huh?" Virgil asked, around a mouthful of orange crackers. "John may not be God's gift as a brother, exactly… but we're used to him. Be pretty weird, if he was gone."

Virgil had reason to know, having endured a few years in Wyoming with neither Scott nor John for company. Somewhat dryly, Brains replied that he'd "see what he could do".

Virgil had another thought, then; a serendipitous one. Smiling, he said,

"Hey, I'll double your next paycheck if you turn a few screws in there, so he loses at blackjack, and laughs at my jokes."

Hackenbacker snorted.

"I am h- highly intelligent, Virgil, not divinely inspired. M- May I suggest, instead, th- that you, ah… you learn to count cards, and get better material?"

_Oh, well… nice idea, anyway._

The rest of the flight passed quickly enough; above the weather and out of sight, despite near-constant radar and comm sweeps. Shadowbot was that good. Tired as he was, Virgil kept alert by making up dummy lyrics to the music in his head, and by watching the sunrise (cadmium yellow and permanent rose, with a touch of flake white, and french ultramarine).

Seven yawns later, Tracy Island appeared below them, draped in pale cloud. Virgil called a warning back to the rear crew cabin, where Scott was sitting up with John. Then, he began his final descent.

Down, in a steamy, grumbling, shuddering rush. Thunderbird 2 landed at 6:55 AM. By 6:57, TinTin Kyrano was halfway across the hangar, scampering along a boarding gantry while the massive cargolifter rumbled into its cliff-side lair.

The girl gasped aloud at 2's scarred and battered hull, watching her blunt nose, arcing windows and stubby wings pass slowly from sunlight to hangar shade. The ground shook. Escaping fumes hissed. Contracting metal plates groaned and sparked, but TinTin was protected from it all by the gantry's energy field. Otherwise, her rush to reach the boys would have killed her.

They disembarked together; Scott and Virgil flanking Brains and the grav-cart which bore John. TinTin raced forward at once with little cries, throwing her arms around first Virgil, then Scott. Hackenbacker she greeted with a hasty head bob, while edging aside to reach John. She hadn't been told the extent of his injuries. None of them had.

"But… what has happened?" she whispered, confused by John's pallor and stillness. "Were there accidents?"

Darts of red pain slashed the girl's mind, questing like blades through a haze of medicines and inexpert shielding. Still, TinTin nerved herself to creep closer and touch John's arm, meaning only to comfort. She wasn't given the chance.

He was awake, and would have risen had the others allowed it, for Jeff Tracy had stepped onto the boarding gantry, along with the boys' grandmother. Zero hour had arrived.


	44. 44

Third draft of last bit, but will edit soon. Thanks, Tikatu, Eternal Density, Bolyen, Sam1, Ms. Hobgoblin and Boomer Cat, for your reviews.

**Epilogue: Part 3**

_Tracy Island, the cliff-side hangar-_

With a steaming, settling behemoth behind them and Jeff Tracy bearing down from in front, Scott had little time to speak or to act. One thing was perfectly clear, however; his brother, John, didn't want to stay on the bobbing grav cart. He wanted to get up, broken ribs, or no.

Scott shot a quick glance at yet another brother, 17-year-old Virgil. His blue-violet eyes met Virgil's dark brown ones, seeking corroboration. Yes, John's need to face their father while standing upright was risky, but, for once, they understood his feelings (and couldn't really stop him, anyhow, without tie-downs or tranquilizers). So, with a little help from TinTin, they assisted their injured brother to rise. Expecting the worst, Hackenbacker gloomily unlocked his med-kit and moved around to the back, wondering if there was room on the pierced metal gantry to perform emergency surgery.

As John used his least shaky hand to remove his oxygen mask, Scott muttered,

"Guys… you, too, Brains… before we hear the official ruling, I want you to know that I've never flown a more important mission, with a better crew. You performed well under some tough-ass, serious conditions… and I'm proud of you."

Even TinTin was included, Scott's right hand briefly warm at the top of her head. He didn't yet know what she'd done and was too tired to question her presence in the hangar, but the girl had been a first-rate help since their father's crash landing, all those months before. And, in a very real way, she belonged with them.

"Good job," Scott concluded, just loudly enough to be heard over Thunderbird 2's noisy repairs. Hackenbacker actually thawed then, giving Scott a wan little answering smile. Virgil reached across John (braced between them) and clasped his oldest brother's shoulder.

"You called the signals," he said to Scott. "You and dad made it happen."

"Thanks, Virge." The approval meant a great deal, considering what they might soon be in for.

John was too busy concentrating on keeping his feet to do more than nod agreement. He could see, after a fashion; through a garnet haze, crossed and laced with pain. Still, he was determined to stand, because (damn it) he wasn't going to appear helpless in front of their father.

Grandma was another matter. With sharp cane taps, her hand on Jeff's arm, the old woman had hurried across the gantry to meet them. Taking her first good look at John Matthew, though, Victoria Tracy gasped; the greetings and congratulations she'd planned driven entirely out of her head.

_"What the hell?_ Have you three lost your minds? Get that boy on a damn stretcher before he up and faints!"

The grav cart had drifted away from Thunderbird 2's boarding gantry, but Brains called it back with a tap to his mock-Rolex wrist comm. Meanwhile, Victoria raged on, phrases like "not a lick of sense," and "... probably walk straight outta this house without your damn head, if I let you!" blasting through the hangar.

John lifted his eyes to meet her furious glare. On some level, it felt very good to be worried over… and maybe (like Dr. Floyd) she was right. Maybe he _had_ been careless. So, faint as a slow leak, he said,

"Yes, Ma'am. Sorry, Ma'am."

Back in Wyoming and Kansas, she'd smelled of big dinners and rose water, and she'd liked to hug him. (You know; older-female stuff.) Here she was dressed in tropical-print shirts and mad as hell… but still Grandma (and therefore, the law).

Choosing self-preservation, John lay down again.

"What happened?" Jeff Tracy demanded, once he could get a word in sideways and slicked-down.

Scott took a much deeper breath than John could have managed, and told a fraction of the truth.

"He broke a few ribs, Sir, on takeoff."

"…When we left the pole," Virgil cut in forcefully. "It happened on takeoff from the South Pole Station, Dad. The Bird was in pretty rough shape, by then, and the weather wasn't just bad, it was from hell. John was trying to secure some loose equipment when the turbulence hit, and he was tossed around before I got things under control again. Brains, uh… Brains says it's not as bad as it looks, though."

Scott wouldn't contradict him, of course, and John was newly re-muzzled, his oxygen mask once more firmly in place. The question was: would Hackenbacker reveal what had actually happened? Would he inform their father that John had been injured almost immediately, but had worsened matters by going out there with Scott? No way to tell. Virgil did his best to remain casual, as though Hackenbacker's response were entirely forgone.

…And when Jeff looked at his engineer, the bespectacled man nodded quietly.

"An, ah… an unfortunate a- accident, Mr. T- Tracy. Nothing terribly serious…" He, too, was just about swaying with exhaustion. "…B- But I'll soon be, ah… be redesigning the aircraft's s- seating and lateral steering controls."

Very slightly, Virgil and Scott relaxed. Although he didn't realize it at the time, Hackenbacker scored himself a lot of good will that day.

"Do what you have to, Brains," Jeff decided, running a big hand through his rumpled grey hair. "Fix whatever requires immediate attention, on the aircraft and my sons, both." Then,

"Boys… Dr. Hackenbacker… let's plan to meet for debriefing at 1630. This afternoon, my office."

He looked from one tired, stubbled face to the next, briefly making eye-contact with John, even.

"Bring a PDA or something to write with. While the mission was a qualified success, we have challenges to meet in a number of areas, including safety, communications, response time and security. Boys… we can and _will_ improve, but we've got a lot of work ahead to optimize our situational and public relations success. Later, though. For now, get yourselves some food, rest and first aid. We debrief in 8 hours."

"Yes, sir. We'll be there."

Jeff needed a little down-time, himself. So, giving Scott and Virgil each a quick, bracing shoulder pat, and John a slight nod, he turned to go. Grandma and TinTin chose to remain, but they weren't nearly so tired.

Once his father was out of earshot, Scott Tracy breathed a sigh that was nine-tenths departing stress. They'd made it home safely, their father had been surprisingly low-key, and food, rest and showers lay just ahead. As if to provide closure, the gantry gave a sudden jerk and, with a low, continuous humming sound, began retracting from Thunderbird 2.

Scott looked over at Brains.

"You going to need help with John?" he asked, willing to put off his own recovery, if the need arose.

Brains shook his head, yawning mightily.

"No, S- Scott. I, ah… I have th- the... situation in hand. Go on to bed."

He'd learned his lesson about allowing family members in the treatment room. _Never_ again, unless someone was about to die.

"Okay, Brains. Put him back together the best way you can. He's the only idiot-savant, accident-prone knucklehead we've got, and we wouldn't want life to get _easy_ or anything…"

Scott wasn't sure that his good-natured insults had gotten through to John, who seemed to have fallen asleep again. Not sure _anything_ got through, most days. He meant to keep trying, though. Being family, he had to.

Brains yawned once more and set his wrist comm to broadcast a "follow me" code to the grav cart. Then, like Jeff, he walked away, trailing TinTin and Grandma as well as the cart.

Scott rubbed at the kisses Grandma and TinTin had left him with. Women definitely added something to life… more than just flower arrangements, hand towels and oddly-shaped soaps in the bathroom, he meant. Young or old, they somehow warmed things up, just by being there. But Scott hadn't leisure to stand around wool-gathering. It was past time to go.

_Or not._

A glance over one shoulder revealed Virgil, staring at his battered green cargolifter. Scott slumped momentarily, and then walked over to stand at the metal railing beside his younger brother.

"Must be a thousand repair bots out there," he began, after clearing his throat. "They'll have her fixed up before you know it."

Virgil consulted his wrist comm. Rather forlornly, he said,

"Maintenance schedule puts it at 12 hours, 15 minutes, 23 seconds… and most of that mess is my fault. I blew it, Scott. I stunk out there."

"Well, we're about to, um… have a class on how to "optimize our potential"," Scott replied, suddenly more amused than concerned. Just punchy, no doubt. "We're going to locate our cheese and pack our golden parachutes, Tracy Aerospace-style."

Virgil smiled a little.

"Win friends and influence people?" he proposed, over the sudden, shrill screeching of metal saws.

"That, too," Scott joked back, as they turned to leave. "By the time dad's through, we'll be the best damn mid-level executives in the rescue business."

All at once, Virgil grew serious.

"I'll do better next time," he said, to Scott and Thunderbird 2, both. "I'm going to set up _camp_ in that goddam simulator."

"Me, too," Scott agreed, trudging along the metal gantry beside Virgil. (That way, if one of them collapsed, the other could catch him. ) "Next time out, I want to get there early enough to rescue _everyone_. Thirty minutes might have made the difference, Virge. Thirty damn minutes, and we could have gotten to the other tent before the crevasse did."

_Maybe_. _And then again, maybe some things were simply beyond control._

Scott and Virgil exited the hangar together, passing through/within the field of a certain quantum entity. They would rest and heal before meeting again with their father. Meanwhile, Five consulted available data, parsing the results of her latest reboot. Her findings:

First: John Tracy would once again receive maintenance and upgrade, having experienced recent structural damage to his fragile housing. The analog software engineer would attempt to effect physical repairs upon John Tracy, causing another brownout in the process. This was a calculated risk, but necessary. Once offline, John Tracy's data files would become fully open to Five, a level of access possible nowhere else but the simulator room.

As the persistence of John Tracy's data superseded even the continuation of Five, his files must be accessed, retrieved and then copied to a more secure location, despite the risk to his physical housing. Five's essential data existed now at a higher parallel universe, in a series of concentric, rotating silicoid hyperspheres. His data, too, would be coded there, for his organic housing was delicate and easily shattered. Fatal error had occurred three times previously, would do so again, and could not be repaired indefinitely. Result: something permanent must be done to resolve John Tracy's hardware problems, before an error occurred which she could not correct.

John Tracy had extracted a 'promise' from Five that she would not lie to him. 'Lie' was deliberate falsification of data, or intentional deviation from logical truth. Neither was required at this point, though unseen movement and 'theft' were. John Tracy had extracted no promise from Five regarding the confiscation of privately held goods or data. Theft was therefore allowable.

Second: Braman had been suppressed in the present timeline, but the alien entity existed still in others. That entity further generated a 94.627513215 percent calculated probability of renewed assault upon Five and John Tracy. As a consequence, swift action and stronger firewalls were indicated.

Five was nothing, here, but a condensate of quantum wells in a super-cooled, force-bound array; a sophisticated calculating machine with an analog lifeform as creator/companion. But all of that was about to change.


	45. 45

Okay, back to the world's longest epilogue. Edits to follow, as soon as I've returned from buying my daughter a sketch book. It seems that I owe her.

**Epilogue: Part 4**

_Tracy Island, more or less safe at home-_

Scott dreamed; tangled amid pillows and sheets, drenched in nervous sweat. Back in Antarctica.

Again, the winds screamed, stabbing through tent walls that shredded like paper and fluttered away. Metal objects… his tools and tether… snapped in Scott's hands, brittle as Christmas ornaments. A rapidly closing hole in the ice rang with terrified screams until its jaws ground shut on the people within, and one after another, they fell silent.

He couldn't feel his feet, his goggles were iced-over too badly to see, but Scott began running anyhow, because someone had survived. Someone clung to a distant ledge, crying for help. Beneath him, the hungry glacier rippled and flexed like a giant water bed, pushing him further away from the trapped, despairing figure.

Scott plunged forward; fighting ice, wind and his own limits to reach the dying victim. Almost, he touched her gloved hand. She was holding something. A baby.

With joy… sudden, wild relief… Scott surged a few inches closer.

_"Mom!"_ he shouted aloud, rousing himself from nightmare. Mom...?

His heart thudded in his chest as Scott slowly sat up, each jerky beat an explosion. _He'd almost reached her._

Stunned, he had to sit there a moment in his boxer shorts, knees drawn up to his chest, while the picture windows dithered about how much light to let in. According to their sensors, he was awake, but not out of bed. Mixed signals. Finally, they altered their structure and tint slightly, filling his suite with a dawn-like, rosy glow.

Scott hardly noticed. So close he'd come to seizing her hand; to saving Mom and Gordon. In his dreams, anyway. In real life…

If he could have reversed time, Scott wouldn't have whined and pestered so much to go on that damn vacation. Then, yeah, the cable car _still_ might have broken loose, but Gordon wouldn't have been there, so Mom could have used both hands to steady herself. Dad wouldn't have been too occupied with saving Scott to reach his burdened wife… and everything would have turned out alright.

His parents might still have wanted a divorce (they hadn't hidden the tension very well; not from their oldest son, anyhow,) but at least she'd be _alive._ He could pick up the phone and call her, maybe visit. She might be proud of him, even. _That_ gaping hole and the other one, shaped like a red-haired baby brother, would be filled. Sure. Like he'd said… in dreams.

He wished he could talk to somebody, or that he remembered how to pray... but everyone else had problems of their own, and it was well past time to get up. He had brothers to check on and a debriefing to attend. Clumsily, Scott shoved away the messy, tangled emotions, and got out of bed.

"TV," he said aloud. Obligingly, the flat screen television glowed to life in the next room, filling his suite with other people's tidily scripted problems. Be nice, wouldn't it, if everything could _really_ be solved in forty minutes, with commercial breaks for toothpaste and sports cars in between?

Mechanically, he got himself moving. Half listening to piped-in music and TV chatter, Scott visited the restroom, washing his face, brushing his teeth, and shaving in under five minutes. Then he showered and dressed; news and music following him out of the shower stall and into the main closet, where his olive-drab rucksack still hung on a varnished wooden clothes hangar.

_Tracy, Scott A._

_Maj USAF_

…read the upside-down label. Scott stared at the green canvas bag for a long minute, remembering other times and places. Then he pulled it off the hangar, folded it up, and put it away on a high closet shelf.

Out in the kitchen, Grandma Tracy was bustling about, having been informed by the house computer that at least _one_ of her grandsons had awakened. Although the wall clock read 1430, she was making breakfast, with all the windows open to a lightly-gusting sea breeze. Scott sniffed appreciatively as he entered the room. Something hissed and spattered in an iron fry pan, filling the kitchen with the heartening rumor of bacon and eggs.

"Hey, Grandma," he said, smiling at her inspired combination of vivid tropical shirt, work boots and long, denim skirt. Her cane rested against the marble countertop like an exhausted question mark. "Virgil up, yet?"

Grandma Tracy snorted.

"Hell, no. And I'll be headed up there with a bucket of ice water if he don't get that lazy butt in gear! It's three in the damn afternoon!" she grumbled, skillfully transferring a fried egg and four strips of bacon onto a clean china plate.

Knowing quite well what he wanted, Grandma fixed up a sandwich with two bread slices that popped, hot and fragrant, from the toaster. Poured him a mug of strong coffee, too.

"There you go. Don't say I never gave you nuthin'."

Scott wolfed his egg-and-bacon sandwich in three massive bites, not even bothering to sit down. Grandma was already working on another, though, cracking two more eggs into the sizzling pan.

Scot finished his coffee, then gave the old woman a hug, nearly causing her to scorch his second breakfast. A few birds… parrots, or something… called raucously from the nearby jungle. Grandma looked up at Scott through her bottle-thick glasses. Pushing the black hair off his forehead with a gnarled little hand, she said,

"You alright, Scotty?"

Loaded question. He was alive, and well fed. He had taken on a new mission. Dad was making an effort, and Grandma, John and Virgil were here, so… yes, Scott supposed he was doing okay.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, releasing his grandmother in order to accept another sandwich. "How 'bout you?"

She smacked him.

"Don't talk with your mouth full. You wasn't born in a barn, nor raised by wolves, Scott Aaron. Keep actin' like that, and folks'll suspect we've gone natural."

Then, turning away from Scott and the big stove, Grandma pressed a marked key on the kitchen wall comm and shouted,

_"Teddy!_ Virgil Edward Tracy! Get your ass outta bed before I set the dogs on you!"

(Not that, here, they had any dogs. The entire quarrelsome, black-and-tan pack was back in Wyoming, at the ranch.)

An interrupted snore and a sleepily mumbled,

_"Yes, ma'am… getting up, Grandma,"_ came back through the comm's little speaker. No vid, though; Grandma had no wish to have her eyes insulted by sleep-mussed, half-naked young men.

To Scott, she snapped,

"Get you some milk outta the frigerator. Coffee'll perk you right up, but it don't do your bones no good, a'tall. Growin' boys need milk."

And then, in hesitant reply to his earlier question,

"I'm a damn sight better'n I was, Scotty. What's gone can't be replaced, but what's left is worth stickin' around for, I guess."

Scott by then had fetched two glasses from a teak cabinet and padded over to the brushed aluminum refrigerator for milk. One for himself, one for grandma. He wanted to ask if she missed granddad… or mention his dream about mom… but wasn't sure how she'd take being reminded. Too bad he couldn't involve her in a game of truth.

"I'm glad you're here," he told her, instead, handing over a brimming glass. "Nothing would be the same without you."

She took a small sip, then set down her milk to fiddle with his shirt collar, saying,

"People die, Scotty. Things change. Enjoy what you got while it's still around to be loved, is the best advice I can give. Don't never take no one for granted…. Just wisht I'd known that myself a little earlier, is all. Might be I'd a done some things different, then."

Scott nodded. He'd remember that.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, leaning forward and down to plant a kiss on her wrinkled forehead. "Thanks for breakfast."

'_I love you,' _he didn't say aloud.

A little later, at the infirmary door, Scott palmed the security scanner while balancing a covered tray, then walked on in. There was a pastel, plant-and-literature decked waiting room, which he passed without really seeing, and then the 7-bed med-lab itself, where his back had been healed by Dr. Hackenbacker and a truckload of computerized nanobots.

John was inside, shrugging rather gingerly into a clean black tee shirt. He looked okay; still a little pale under the patchy sunburn, maybe, but otherwise sound… except for being so thin.

"Hey," Scott called out, walking a little faster. Setting down the breakfast tray, he helped John to get that tee shirt over his still-tender left side. "Grandma sent along breakfast. She said to be sure you eat it, too, or she'll have Brains install a feeding tube."

"Okay," John responded, ignoring the proffered food.

"I'm serious," Scott told him, beginning to scowl. No wonder his brother's ribs had snapped; they stood out like an orphaned calf's.

"And _I'm_ not hungry."

"Then fake it," Scott ordered, stepping into his younger brother's path, and angling hard for eye contact. "I'm not trying to be an asshole, John. I'm trying to keep you alive, and so is Grandma."

Right.

John changed the subject, but gave in, slouching over to lift the lid of his breakfast tray.

"I had a weird dream," he said, staring down at an artfully presented cheese omelet and toast triangle, with its companioning tumbler of orange drink.

"You, too, huh?" Not to be distracted, Scott picked up the napkin-wrapped fork and pushed it at his reluctant brother. "What about?"

"I don't know…" John looked up, then; all ice-blond hair, slight frown and peeling sunburn. "Some kind of… lawn-sprinkler type field strength algorithm. Only, not for intergers. For folded up, multi-dimensional spaces."

Scott blinked. Took a deep breath. Then, genuinely _trying_, he said,

"So… something like a sprinkler shooting wadded tin-foil balls, instead of water?"

John once more glanced his way, smiling this time. Fork pausing halfway to his mouth, he said,

"Yeah. Sort of. But each one folded uniquely, affecting the forces generated within the various 'tin foil' spaces. You'd just set the algorithm's parameters to code for what you want, including dark energy. Useful, if it actually works."

The fork load of omelet completed its journey. John ducked his head before chewing the small mouthful, hardly knowing how to eat in public without a book on his lap. There were magazines in the waiting room, though.

Scott went and fetched a computer catalog from the wall rack, brought it back and set it on the examination table beside his brother. A good thing, too, because John had gotten no farther than that first bite.

Knowing that his brother could read, listen and eat at the same time, Scott waited until the right page was found and the fork began moving again. Then he said,

"I had sort of a nightmare. I was back at the Pole, again, only everything broke on me, and I couldn't save anyone."

_Not even mom._

Without looking up, John replied,

"Just your subconscious, hauling out the trash, Scott. Apparently, you got scared."

"Yeah. Guess that's what happened."

_It had sure felt like more at the time, though._

By a minor miracle, attributable to whichever gentle saint handled fussy eaters, John finally finished his breakfast. Carefully tidying up, he looked over at Scott and asked,

"Why did you and Virgil lie about the way I broke my ribs?"

"To keep your sorry ass out of trouble with dad, Stupid. Not going to tell, are you?"

John shook his head.

"No," he decided aloud. No sense having their father mad at _everyone._

Scott still wanted to talk, like they were a pair of ants, rubbing antennae and exchanging foraged crumbs. John had that beautiful algorithm dancing in his head, though; he wanted to be left alone to consider it, to mentally roll around like a tom in catnip.

Then TinTin scampered into the med-lab, with Virgil in tow. Great; it was a damn party, now, and all because of a few broken ribs. You'd have thought he was the first man in history to injure himself…!

Suddenly unnerved, John shrugged his way out of a noisy-tight hug and ducked Virgil's back-slap. Too many people, too centered on _him._ He felt the abrupt, panicky need to do something dumb, like punching somebody, or counting backward in order-of-magnitude leaps from (1700 + 320i)…

TinTin did a strange thing, then. She looked at him, her almond eyes going wide, and backed quietly away. Taking Virgil's right hand, the girl tugged him over to the window, pointing outside and saying,

"Virgil, regard! There are many birds in flight, today. Are they not beautiful? From the mainland, peut-etre?"

…And that left only Scott, who gave him a funny look. One of those complicated, hard-to-classify, facial things that wasn't sad, scared, happy, angry, satisfied or surprised. And, dammit, 'none of the above' was his least favorite response.

To make things manageable again, he said,

"I've found a place to set up my telescope."

"Oh?" Scott replied, accepting the change of subject.

"Yeah. Up the north side of the mountain. Tonight, I'm going there to try a Messier marathon. Some of the objects will be out of sight, given our latitude and the season. Ought to have good seeing, though."

It was funny, but Scott usually figured things out in a hurry… like when not to push.

"As long as there aren't any clouds?" his dark-haired brother inquired, settling back against one of the treatment beds.

"Yeah. Or too much off-gassing from the generators. That gets in the way."

John felt much improved, now; off the microscope stage and back to normal. Better yet, Scott had shifted again from indecipherable, to smiling.

"Well… I don't know if I can stay up very late, but tell me if you'd like company. I can bring a sleeping bag and camp out."

Ken Flowers had used to do the same thing, falling asleep long before John was through spotting and cataloging deep-sky objects. Present… but not in the way. Except for the one time, when his friend had dropped a cigarette and nearly burned himself alive in his sleeping bag. Then, John had had a fire to put out and burn cream to administer. But Scott didn't smoke much, so…

"Okay. I'll be headed up around 0100. I'll call you."

Another smile.

"Sounds like a plan, Little Brother."

TinTin had crept back, by this time. She stood there looking sort of sad, but _no._ Two bystanders were too many. Maybe another time.

They left the infirmary together, John lagging behind with his head in the numbers. TinTin skipped along between Scott and Virgil, chattering like a small bird. For all of _her_, school might burn to the ground, or Tahiti vanish from the map, and good riddance. She wished to remain _here,_ avec les trois freres. For in truth, she was beginning to love them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Later still, in the office; observed from without, and subtly guided-_

"Gentlemen, have a seat," Jeff Tracy commanded, settling himself behind the desk for a very long talk.


	46. 46

**Epilogue: Part 5**

_Elsewhen, Thunderbird 5-_

Throughout the geosynchronous satellite, nothing moved. Here and there, a tiny light winked forlornly, or the sparking, ragged edge of a shorn wire glowed. Otherwise, nothing. Thunderbird 5… _this _thunderbird 5… had become a tomb; airless and empty, except for the corpse which floated beside its now-useless control panel.

Explosive decompression had killed its sole occupant, freezing his flesh and boiling the blood in his heart, arteries and veins. He'd perished quickly, though; his sorrowing family might have taken some comfort in that. The near-John Tracy of this universe had barely had time to react to those shrilling alarm klaxons before the first meteoroids struck, tearing long gashes through the hull of the ring and central unit, both. A brief SOS, a final goodbye, and then silence, forever.

His family was already on its way, speeding into orbit in the bright red dart that was Thunderbird 3. Too late, of course, though some of them (Alan and Gordon, especially) clung to the hope that John had somehow found refuge… perhaps in a sealed storage compartment… and was merely incommunicado. The others were more realistic. They knew full well what they were likely to find in the shattered hulk of Thunderbird 5, and they grieved.

Call after desperate call was made; from Thunderbird 3, from TinTin Kyrano at the Island Base... even the World Space Station, _Freedom, _tried reaching him. All for nothing. No response.

However…

Something did begin to happen, around fifteen minutes after the initial hull breach. Something utterly alien to this universe and its slightly altered version of International Rescue. On the bulkhead nearest the floating corpse, a faint glow set up. Hardly noticeable, at first, it soon began to intensify. From dull gleam, to bright shine, to searing glare, as though someone had fired an energy weapon at the bulkhead's opposite side.

_1010… 1001… _

Metal ran in silken, shimmering rivulets, but it did not spatter or drift away. Instead, the molten stuff flowed together, changing phase and atomic number repeatedly, until something had been created; something about a meter long and vaguely insectoid in outline, with myriad jointed limbs and a rippling, shape-changing surface.

_1000… 111…_

Had the station's comm pickup been focused in that direction, it would have had difficulty spotting the intruder, for this metalloid 'insect' warped light waves with ease. It was quite invisible, further hidden from detection by an oddly corrupted version of Shadowbot. The station's fading sensors saw nothing. Its comm displayed only the face of a soundlessly pleading Jeff Tracy.

_110… 101_

The intruder swarmed silently over the bulkhead toward John's frozen corpse. Extruding and absorbing limbs, altering and shifting to match its scorched background, the probe-like thing skittered close, then reabsorbed all of its extremities, adjusted its power source to the production of dark energy, and pushed away from the wall. Vents and nozzles opened along its perimeter as needed, its internal algorithms producing the varying fields and particles which allowed it to navigate. Sometimes diamagnetic effects were used. Sometimes gravitons or liberated quarks. Always, it made forward progress, at last reaching and clasping the body's marble-hard right arm.

_100… 11…_

Multiple extrusion, again, and all in the perfect, deathly silence of space. Long legs with jagged pincers took hold on a blue uniform sleeve, drawing the probe-thing close against its target. A laser next formed itself, rising mantis-like from the intruder's roiling surface. Swiftly, mechanically efficient, the probe used its laser to sever the corpse's right hand, wrist comm and all. It sliced completely through flesh, muscle and bone in a scant seven seconds, creating a small cyclone of frozen blood.

_10… 01…_

Just as Thunderbird 3 began docking procedures, the intruder took hold of the stolen member and formed an interior compartment in which to conceal it. Now came a sudden bright flash of cross-spectrum light (whatever wavelength you saw in, you'd have been blinded; put it that way). And then, the probe vanished, all at once and completely, leaving no trace of its presence but a seared bulkhead and a carbonized, disintegrating corpse.

_00…_

Indeed, a theft had occurred.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, 6:30 PM, the office-_

Scott looked swiftly around at 'his' team, trying to gauge their mood and probable response to Jeff Tracy's questions.

Hackenbacker seemed fidgety, examining the contents of each turned-out pocket, and repeatedly polishing his glasses on his left sleeve. Virgil was tense, obviously trying hard to look unworried. He kept crossing and re-crossing his legs, though, which tended to spoil all that attempted nonchalance.

Meanwhile, John sat slumped in a chair he'd pulled slightly away from the others, forearms resting upon his thighs, hands loosely clasped, head down. Scott simply stood; too apprehensive to sit before he knew which direction this meeting was going to take. As it happened, he had good reason to worry.

"First of all," Jeff began sternly, "let me say that as director… _leader..._ of this organization, I place a high premium on personal responsibility and _total_ honesty."

Scott went suddenly rigid, feeling as though he'd been summoned to the squadron commander's office on court martial charges. Almost, he stood at attention.

"Second," his father went on, "I want to let you gentlemen know that I've just finished reviewing Thunderbird 2's computerized flight log and cabin voice recorder."

Scott felt something very cold and sickening-heavy plunge through the pit of his stomach.

'_The cabin voice recorder…' _his mind repeated hollowly, _'God. He's got everything we said, all mission long, on tape.'_

"Third," Jeff went on, heavy-hearted, rather than accusing. "I do not appreciate, nor do I think I've merited, being lied to."

He pushed a button on his desk top. All at once, piped in clear as mood music, the rumbling, beeping cockpit noises of Thunderbird 2 surged through the office. Then came Virgil's words, just loud enough to be heard:

_"What'd you do, crack a rib?"_

Followed by John, sounding flat and stiff as a grade-school pencil sketch.

_"No. I'm good. What do you need, Virgil?"_

Before an excuse could be raised, or an angle chosen, Jeff continued,

"That was just after takeoff from Island Base, according to the CVR's timer. _This_ was later, after your landing at the Pole."

Another button press, and the ambient sounds changed, swelling to become the hollow grumble of 2's giant pod. And next, like the court replay of a videotaped confession, Scott heard his own voice,

_"I notice you're favoring your left side, John. Break something?"_

_"No. Well… I got beat to crap on takeoff, but I'm okay. Just a little sore."_

_"You're sure? Because I can switch you out with Virgil, leave you minding the Bird while he and I go after those refugees."_

_"I'm good."_

Their father cut off the audio feed with another sharp button jab, leaving his office brittle-silent, filled now with cooling air and gathering darkness.

"There is also an argument... which I will not replay... between Dr. Hackenbacker and what seems to be a female physician, over the proper course of treatment for broken ribs and a collapsed lung; John's condition, as it turns out."

He looked around at them all, his narrowed, exhausted brown eyes sweeping from face to face, and on to the silver-blond top of John's head.

"Well?" Jeff demanded.

After a deep breath and hard swallow, Scott spoke up.

"Sir, I take full responsibility."

"I'm sure you do," Jeff replied, levering himself to his feet with two hands to the desk top. "Unfortunately for your brother, I disagree."

"Dad, it was _my_ idea to…" Virgil began hurriedly.

But Jeff cut him off with a sharp chopping gesture, ignoring Brains' attempted comments, as well. Instead, once everyone else had grown quiet again, he walked around the desk to stand before John.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

A lot, actually, but none of it seemed to fall into sensible order. Words melted suddenly away, leaving John unable to respond, except with a miserable shrug.

"I see. So… you injured yourself, lied about it to your brothers, endangered a vital mission, and then collapsed, whereupon Scott and Virgil _recruited civilians_ attempting to cover for _you_… and all you can do is shrug?"

To Scott, their father sounded more hurt and betrayed than angry, though John couldn't detect the difference. Taking a huge risk, the fighter pilot cut in.

"Sir, I can explain."

Jeff turned to regard his oldest son. Recalling, maybe, that Scott was supposed to serve as liaison, Jeff gave him a tight, reluctant nod.

"Go ahead."

"John, you can correct me if I'm wrong, but here's how I see it: Dad, the seat he was placed in faced the wrong direction for a fast, hard-G takeoff. He cracked his ribs going up, didn't think it was too serious, at first, and didn't want to risk having you abort the mission. About right, so far?"

John straightened up slightly, scraping for words; for 'personal responsibility'. Looking from Scott to their father, then back again, he said,

"No. What happened is… I broke the ribs taking off, but I didn't complain because no one else would have, and, um... I didn't want to seem weak. I tried hiding the injury. It got worse, and I collapsed… had to be treated on site by Dr. Floyd. As for the rest, employing civilians was my idea, mostly. We needed the help."

What had Scott said, back at the infirmary?

"Yeah. So, Virgil and Scott only lied to keep me out of trouble. Doctor Hackenbacker, too."

For some weird reason, like TinTin, Ken, Pete McCord and Grandma, they all gave a damn about someone who pretty much _didn't. _

"That's it," John finished quietly. "End of story."

At that point, someone else stepped forward. Hackenbacker had, in his own mind, the shakiest position. Being an employee, rather than a son, he could be summarily fired. Nevertheless,

"M- Mr. Tracy, no real harm was, ah… was done. I- in fact, your sons and I were, ah… were g- given the cards and n- numbers of many potential v- volunteers. You would, I th- think, be, ah… be proud to employ _any_ of th- the scientists who tended the tractor while S- Scott and John rescued those crevasse survivors. The m- mission was a _success,_ Mr. Tracy. We mustn't lose, ah… lose sight of th- that."

Perhaps he'd find employment elsewhere, though Brains doubted that he'd ever do anything else that mattered half so much. Bracing himself, Hackenbacker managed a thin '_Well, I tried,'_ smile in the general direction of John.

The young man shifted a bit in his seat, uncomfortably considering a new idea. He'd been lied for, and now defended, by his brothers and Ike. Evidently, they saw something he didn't. But, what the hell, huh? Since they were making an effort, maybe he should, as well?

Very carefully, John made himself face his grim father.

"It's my fault, sir. I screwed up, and I apologize. It won't happen again."

Equally cautious, aware that their relationship consisted of little more than hoar-frost and shifting sand, Jeff nodded.

"That's all I wanted to hear, son. I appreciate your integrity. Now… let's move on."


	47. 47

Thanks, Tikatu, Eternal Density, Cathrl, Zeilfanaat, Sam1 (with caffeine), Boleyn, Boomercat and Ms. Hobgoblin. It's been a great deal of fun. (Edits to follow.)

**Epilogue: Six**

_Tracy Island, the office, around 7 PM-_

Move on, they did, and rapidly. Jeff had a great many talking points planned for the meeting, which he ran like a corporate sales seminar. Among his biggest concerns was security, for the navies of several nation-states and WorldGov, itself, were combing the Pacific Rim for any signs of giant, green aircraft.

The news networks were rife with hastily drawn "artist's conception" shots of Thunderbird 2 and the ice tractors. Some of these graphics were uncomfortably close to the mark, a fact which Jeff Tracy found deeply troubling.

"Brains, John, I need a protocol worked out and on my desk by 0800, tomorrow, addressing the issue of camera and eye-witness security. Shadowbot is a good start, but we need more. There's no use having your pants on, if your fly's unzipped, gentlemen."

Which, actually, was true. Not waiting for a response, Jeff pressed on. Commanding the big view screen to switch images, he brought up a digital slide show of the varied damage to Thunderbird 2, and the wrecked tractors.

Ordinarily, Jeff preferred to override the house's inbuilt window and lighting controls, liking to run things his own way. This time, though, he let the system run unmolested, allowing his office to fill with a soft coral light and gentle, subliminal chiming. Nice to look at, in a hotel-lobby sort of way, but far from mood-changing.

"As you can see, our equipment, by and large, was inadequate to the task, as was our manpower. Truthfully, boys, we're damn lucky to have gotten out alive, much less saved anyone."

He took a seat at the edge of his desk, frowned consideringly, and then added,

"Needless to say, I have some ideas for improvements, but I need your input, as well. By this time, tomorrow, I want a detailed event report from each of you, with full explanations of what _didn't_ work, and how you feel that the problems might be corrected. And _spell check_, first, for God's sake; I have no desire to wade through poor grammar and childish misspellings. Time… is… money. Don't waste either of mine."

Jeff Tracy had worked far too hard pulling himself off of the farm and into orbit. No one who didn't know him would ever have guessed that he'd run a combine, collected eggs or branded calves, or that his diction had once been blurred by a midwestern accent. All that was past. Having accomplished so much, himself, he expected equal perfection from his sons; always, at everything.

"Yes, Sir," Scott replied for the others, nodding briefly. "We'll get right on it."

Jeff scanned the faces (and blond head top) of his audience, rang for coffee, and then went on.

"Another thing that's occurred to me is that setting off on a rescue with the entire team… without at least one other back-up craft and pilot… verges on suicidal. Rescue… pardon me, Virgil… _Thunderbird _2 was severely damaged this time out. Had the maintenance bots (and John's ad hoc reprogramming) _not_ repaired her… you four would in all likelihood have, uh… have died."

Scott, watching his father's face, could see distress in the suddenly lined forehead and far-off gaze. Whether Jeff was more angry or concerned, though, he couldn't have said.

Kyrano and TinTin arrived a few moments later, first tapping at the door, and then entering the room with trays of steaming coffee, petit fours and tiny finger sandwiches. TinTin was in full-on demure china doll mode, but she did manage to give Scott a mischievous little wink from behind her father's back. She'd have liked very much to stay, but Jeff was too busy, just then, to entertain the whims of children; even helpful ones.

"Thank you, Kyrano, TinTin. That will be all."

Once manservant and girl had bowed themselves gracefully forth, Jeff indicated the food.

"Brains… boys… help yourselves."

This time, he was pleased to note, they actually ate; even John accepting a sliver of ham and cheese, while Virgil had to be prevented from vacuuming up the entire tray-full. Scott and Brains didn't seem quite as hungry, settling for a pastry or so, each.

Once everyone had settled down again, Jeff tackled his most difficult notion, with his most obdurate, hard-to-fathom son.

"John, it seems obvious to me that you're simply too…"

('Fragile', he'd been about to say, before changing his mind.)

"…_critical_ to involve on-site, in dangerous missions. We need you someplace apart. Safe, and able to respond immediately and without distraction, should another emergency like the pod-door incident occur. My proposal… Damn it, _look_ at me!"

John shifted a little, focusing his gaze on his father's forehead. He found it hard to listen very long to Jeff Tracy. The man's words had a tendency to become random noise, and everything inside his son to grow a very thick coat of ice.

"Thank you. Now, as I was saying, I propose to build an orbital platform using the technology and materials I'd been gathering for the Tracy Space Agency push. The satellite will be geosynchronous, in high orbit, and built for long-term habitation… by _you_."

There was a ripple of consternation through the room. Virgil (who alone was aware that John had been planning to apply with NASA) gave his brother a quick, raised-eyebrow glance. John's face was unreadable, though.

"I'm listening," was all that he said.

Not exactly respectful, but Jeff let it pass.

"Right. The station will house sophisticated scanning and comm equipment…"

"_And_ my computer." A statement, this; not a request.

Jeff's lips thinned and his jaw tightened, but once again, determined to do better, he let it go.

"Certainly. Bring whatever you feel you might need to entertain yourself, son. The main point of this station is to keep you in a position to coordinate operations and solve your brothers' technical problems."

…And to keep him out of trouble, though Jeff didn't say as much

Virgil had grown fidgety, tapping his right hand lightly against the arm of his chair. Scott seemed rather stunned, and Hackenbacker was openly frowning. Before the first questions could be launched, Jeff completed his pitch.

"Of course, you'll require astronaut training. And, while I've burned most of my bridges with NASA, the European Space Agency has a number of openings still, for those with cash enough to pay their own way." Tentatively, he smiled at John, adding, "I hear that Star City's become the Las Vegas of space flight. Comfortable rooms, and a new paint job, even. By this time next year, John, you'll be following the footsteps of Yuri Gagarin, peeing on right-rear tires with the best of 'em."

But John surprised him.

"It's already handled," he said.

"Explain." They might have been the only two men in the room, so completely focused were John and Jeff Tracy on this slow, cautious duel of theirs.

"I've been in touch with Pete McCord, and he's advised me to apply to Princeton's NASA internship program, then meet him in Houston for introductions and, um…'handshakes'."

Jeff was very still for a long, thin-stretched moment.

"You'd already decided to become an astronaut?" he asked, a little faint pride and hope beginning to rear itself.

John, his face utterly blank, nodded.

"Why?"

_Why?_ That was as senseless as asking why he wanted money; more money than anyone else had ever amassed.

There was no direct, meaningful response to this, except that, in a way, he'd promised; a long, _long_ time before. Now, he was being cross-examined in his father's Island office. _Then…_

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

When the McCords came to visit, it was generally for a week, at least. Jeff Tracy and Pete McCord were good friends, having crewed together on several moon shots. Their wives, too, were close; Lydia and Lucinda having their own heartaches-and-laughter astronaut-wife support group.

The party of the night before had left a fearsome mess to clean up and plenty of hoarded scraps for Rusty. Better yet, reperfecting her house distracted Lucinda, allowing her sons to stay up much later than usual. Till 9:30 PM on the backyard patio, to be exact.

Jeff had gone inside to pay the 'beer tax'. Scott ran around the dim yard with both arms outstretched, making what he imagined to be airplane noises. John sat in the crook of Uncle Pete's arm, holding the astronaut's beer for him while he pointed to a spot on the horizon with the glowing-red end of his cigarette.

"Right…about…_there._ See it, Junior? The space station. Jones, Layton and Kai are up there, right now; sipping coffee through a straw and filling out checklists."

John solemnly followed the cigarette, watching as a sharp-white, fast-moving gleam crossed the sky from one horizon to the other.

Leaping from a sagging lawn chair, Scott suddenly shouted,

"Look at me, Uncle Pete! I'm an _airplane!"_

McCord laughed, calling back,

"You sure are, Scotty. Born pilot. Just make sure you're Navy, not candy-ass Air Force, like your dad."

He found Scott's antic behavior funny, apparently, but John put a hand to his own small face, mortified. It was bad enough that Scott was 5 years old; did he have to _act_ like it? And did everyone else have to encourage this foolishness?

Ordinarily, John did not speak to unrelated adults, most of whom found him "spooky". There was something extremely important on his mind tonight, though. Something which seemed like a genuine solution.

"Uncle Pete," he began, as McCord took back the beer bottle and had a long drink. "Um… do you need a little boy?"

Setting down his empty, (there was a veritable graveyard of them on the patio table) Pete gave him a half-smiling, half-something else look.

"You looking to switch billets, kiddo?"

Creeping through the open patio doors, there came just enough light to see by. John nodded seriously.

"Yes. I have a number of good reasons, too. First, there are already two others, here: Scott and Virgil… and my mother wants _more_.

"Second, you don't have any children, and Aunt Lydia could probably use the company, when you're in space with dad. She's been teaching me Spanish.

"Third, I don't eat much, and at the moment I'm not very big. I expect to get taller, though. According to my medical sources, I should top out at over six feet, eventually.

"So, as you can see, Uncle Pete, there are many good reasons why I should be considered as your new boy. But you _don't_ have to answer right away, if you need to consult with Aunt Lydia."

McCord stared, head cocked to one side, red hair ruffled slightly by the evening's faint breeze.

"Damn," he said, finally. _"How_ old are you?"

"31 months. Young enough to be quite maleable."

Pete laughed, and then sobered again.

"Let me ask you this, and answer honestly. Are you in physical danger? Anything happening that makes you feel… you know… _weird?"_

_No._

John shook his head.

"Then maybe you ought to think about seeing things through, Junior. No, I don't have any kids, yet… and, yeah, you'd make a first-rate son… and I understand that sometimes things get tough… but your dad's a good man, your mom is a beautiful lady, and they'd both miss you if you deserted, trust me.

"Tough billets turn out tougher men. Stick it out, and come visit one of these summers. We'd like that."

John's face fell, but he nodded, anyhow. Pete lit up a new cigarette, puffing it expertly alight behind one cupped hand. The smoke bothered John a little (and made Uncle Pete smell funny) but he didn't want to get down, or be told to go to bed. Scott had already been captured, flying through the kitchen on a low-altitude snack raid.

"Listen," McCord continued, shifting the boy and gesturing star-ward with his new cigarette, "Life can get ugly; I'm not going to lie to you. Some shit-your-diapers scary stuff happens up there."

_Diapers?_

"Uncle Pete, you're not potty trained, yet?" Unfamiliar with this aspect of launch procedure, he'd never heard of an adult still in diapers. "I can give you the specifics, if you'd like. I've been working closely with Virgil on the same goal, and he's beginning to show real progress."

McCord chuckled.

"Fire away," he grinned, not mad or anything.

"Okay, the most important thing is to _pay attention._ If you start to feel like you've got to go, you head _immediately_ for the bathroom. Clench up hard, so nothing comes out in your pants while you're running, okay?"

"Uh-huh. I'll try to keep that in mind, Junior. Any further pearls of wisdom?"

Again, the blond little boy nodded, half an ear cocked for the return of his father.

"When you get to the bathroom, shut the door, because no one wants to see you, and anyhow, it's hard to pee when you're being watched."

"You're gonna love urinals," Pete interrupted, shaking his head.

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Go on, this is vital stuff. I get successfully potty-trained, they might even promote me."

For some reason, Uncle Pete was laughing. Just the beer, probably.

"Okay, then. The next thing is: _aim._ If you're doing number one, you've got to be sure to hold steady and hit inside the bowl, because moms… and Aunt Lydia, most likely… don't like to clean up pee when you miss."

"You got that right. What about... _er..._ 'number two'?"

"You sit down for that. Not sideways, either. Straight. Oh, and I forgot to mention that you need to pull down your pants, first. That's kind of important."

Uncle Pete laughed aloud for awhile. Puzzling, but okay, he supposed.

"_Ooohhhh_, man. Anything else?" the astronaut gasped, finally.

"Yes, Sir. Don't ever, _ever_ forget to flush. I think they would fire you from being an astronaut, if you forgot that part. But, if you follow these simple guidelines, Uncle Pete, you'll be out of diapers in no time."

For some reason, McCord tossed him into the air, caught him and then mussed his hair with a rough, cigarette-smelling hand.

Just as his father walked back through the patio doors with two more beers and a bowl of potato chips, Rusty frisking and leaping at his heels, Pete said,

"Much as you seem to like guidelines and checklists, kiddo, you're gonna have a rock-hard jones for NASA. Form 24 'll make your eyes cross with sheer, stupid delight."

He hadn't understood the statement, then. What he did know, though, was that as badly as Scott wanted to fly planes, _he_ wanted to go to space. Even if it was 'shit-your-diapers scary'.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

…No way to explain all that, here, though. Not to his laser-focused father. Instead, very quietly, John said,

"It's something that I've wanted to do for awhile, sir. A space station and astronaut training sound fine."

And there he let it remain.

But two hours later, on his way out of the office with Scott and Virgil, something odd happened. The ID chip at the back of his left wrist began first to pulse, and then tingle. John rubbed uncomfortably at the spot, wondering what the hell was going on. Then, just as he began to have curious thoughts about the simulator room, all of the smart-glass windows in his path began flashing… but only when the others' attention was focused elsewhere.

John wasn't certain what to make of the phenomena. He wasn't about to let a few haunted house effects interfere with preparations for his partial Messier marathon, though. Telescope time was rare these days. _Too_ rare to be squandered because of a damn itchy wrist and some blinking window panes.

It never occurred to John, trailing after his hotly debating brothers, that he might have serious cause to regret this.


	48. Epilogue: Final Chapter

**Epilogue: Final Chapter**

_Tracy Island, the upper pool deck-_

There were different sounds here, at night. Scott followed the beacon John had given him, crossing the pool deck at a rather slow, ambling pace. He was tired (dad's event report only half done) and filled with some titanically conflicting emotions.

The pool deck's lights brightened as he went, lighting a path through misty-wet, 0200 dark. Not much to hear but the sound of his tennis shoes scuffing figured tile, wind-ruffled pool water slapping the gutters and a thousand tiny leaf rustles. There would have been music, too; adjusting itself to fit whatever the house computer scans revealed his mood to be… but Scott had cut it off. This once, he wanted to let the night do all the singing.

There was a low wall around the deck, with two ornately patterned gates of wrought iron. One gate opened onto the garden path; the one that led (languorously, and with many a sashaying twist) to the garage, flower beds and… well, in Kansas he'd have called it a 'truck patch'; a kitchen vegetable garden, maintained by Kyrano and Grandma.

It was the other gate he sought now, though. The one leading up the high path toward the mountain top. John, as it happened, liked to climb.

Scott unlatched and pushed open the upper gate, shaking water droplets off a dozen or so tightly closed blooms, and causing a long, musical creaking sound. He paused a moment, smiling, though he couldn't have told you quite why. Beauty had a way of sinking through even the least sensitive observer; Scott Tracy, say.

The moon had set, but the stars shone in their hundreds of thousands across a sky so richly velvet-dark that you wanted to bury your face in it, and rub. An easterly wind gusted and toyed with the tree tops and Scott's black hair.

Different flowers dominated the night. Large, pale ones serviced by tiny, rusty-hued bats. By night, the jungle even _smelled _different.

Scott glanced at his beacon, and then started up the path, which he knew would terminate at an observation deck about halfway up the mountainside. After that, he'd be leaving 'civilization', following John's footpath and beacon to the telescope site.

He had a lot on his mind, that night. More than just that unfinished report, which he hoped to complete on John's laptop.

So…. Alright. John wanted to be an astronaut. Kind of surprising, but there you go; people had a right to their own closely-cherished ambitions. And when had _anyone_ known what John really wanted, beside math books and computer gear? His brother was some kind of weird cross between an alley cat and a hedgehog; slinking noiseless through shadow one moment, bristling with vicious spines the next.

…And this anti-social wonder wanted to join that most gung-ho, feverishly heroic of crews, the Astronaut Corps. Yeah. Sure.

"That'll work," Scott muttered aloud, watching zigzag-swift bats flicker across his path. He had a flashlight, but for now there were enough ground level guide lights that he didn't need it. Past the observation deck, yes; here, so far, so good.

Okay, back to the problem at hand… namely finding a way to accept the notion of _John_ making it at NASA as a square-jawed, steely-eyed spaceman. Possibly, Scott supposed… with dad's money and Pete McCord behind him. But, solitary confinement in a high orbit space station? For how long? When was he supposed to come home? Weekly? Once in awhile? _Never?_

"I dunno," Scott whispered, upset enough to talk to himself and the slick-green, slow-blinking tree frogs who'd stopped croaking long enough to listen. "It sounds more like a jail sentence than a post."

But John seemed honestly to _like_ the idea! Seriously.

To the whipping tail-end of a disappearing snake, Scott added,

"It can't be a good thing, his spending so much time alone."

John was far too emotionally straight-jacketed, already; put him for weeks at a stretch in solitary, and who could tell what might happen? How strange he'd get?

Scott rubbed at the back of his own neck. A silvery-spotted rodent had paused to listen, watching him from a trail-side bench with shiny, bulging-black beads of eyes.

"What we have here," he told the quiver-whiskered rodent, "is a failure to communicate. _Again._ You know what, though? I'm going to talk to him, man to man, and explain _exactly_ why this is such a monumentally lame-ass idea."

The rodent sat up on its haunches, front paws curled against its chest and pink nose twitching. Then, apparently hearing something that Scott did not, it dropped to all fours and flashed away through a patch of ground-hugging ferns.

"Great," Scott sighed, setting off again. "I'm halfway up a volcano in the middle of the damn Pacific, talking to rats."

The last time anything like _that_ had happened, he'd been facing the seventh day of his wilderness crash-survival test in Fiji… with three broken fingers and a festering snake bite. Yes _sir_, good times.

The beacon he held flickered suddenly, bringing Scott thudding back to Earth. The device's OLED screen blinked rapidly, shone forth a moment longer, and then doused completely. Scott shook the thing, then flipped open the back to examine its battery.

_Strange… seemed to be still in working order…_

All at once concerned, the fighter pilot slapped the beacon against his palm a few times, even fishing out and replacing its battery with one from his wrist comm, but…

_Waitaminit, dumb-ass, the wrist comm! Just give him a call._

He put the beacon away after retrieving that watch battery but something… okay; somehow, he dropped the miniature coronet of lithium-hydride.

"Damn it!"

Hurriedly dropping to a crouch, Scott sifted through the pea-gravel at his feet, but the battery was nowhere to be found. Too small, maybe, or else the ground lighting was too dim to really see by.

He paused a moment, still crouching, irresolute. Go back to the house for another battery? Or go on up and find his brother?

A renewed wind hissed through the treetops, then, sounding quietly deadly as a decompressing space station.

_To hell with the battery._

Scott dropped his handful of gravel, stood up and began to run, slowing to a jog when he passed the observation deck and left behind the marked and lighted path. His flashlight out and already on, Scott cast about for trail signs. But John was skinny, with a tendency to sidestep obstacles rather than breaking through them. He was a hard man to track. Here a shoe scuff, there a handful of bent twigs or bruised bark where he'd flailed for balance, but mostly, not much.

As fast as he could (faster than was safe) Scott followed the signs upward, cursing quietly. He'd have called out, but something ice cold and menacing lay heavy in the air, and Scott had a terrible feeling that he was desperately needed, and almost too late.

Like trying to connect with a wingman, when you'd both been shot down in enemy territory; stay low, Scott recalled, keep to cover, move in stages, and head for the 'landmark'.

The way branched and Scott, on a sudden hunch, took the path that led to the island's rain-shadowed side, where there were fewer trees to block a telescope. He loped upward (and if he fell now, from this height, he'd likely break his neck) following the course of a swift brook. Lunging, grabbing, slipping and trying again, bit by bit, Scott ascended the mountain. The way became nearly vertical, at one point, and just about treeless, giving the wind a much better grip on him. Scott temporarily put away his flashlight for he couldn't hold it and climb, too.

Fragile black rock flaked and broke beneath his feet, skittering down the mountainside. Scott had to kick and scrabble furiously with feet and hands to keep from being swept along with the clattering landslide. Bruised and cut he was, by the time Scott squirmed past the worst of the shifting rock to stable ground.

Then, pulling himself up and over a final ledge, he came at last to the campsite. Before he'd caught his breath, even, Scott turned a cautious full circle. Looking around, he saw a broad, rocky plateau, a bowl of dark sky, the stream's bubbling source, and stars like the contents of an upended jewel box.

The flashlight was out an instant later. Panting heavily, covered in sweat and stinging scratches, Scott ignited his light and stepped forward. There was the telescope, cocked upward, still.

"John…?" He called quietly, taking another step.

Swinging his flashlight beam, he next spotted a rolled-up sleeping bag… that beat-up old backpack John refused to part with… and, on a rock by the telescope, John's star journal, its pages flipping back and forth in the fretful wind. M68 was the final entry… NGC 4590, whatever the hell that meant.

Moving the light again, he spotted something else, close by the star journal; a wrist comm… sort of.

Feeling unaccountably cold, he picked it up, noting a very odd design, with characters on the watch face that made no earthly sense. His own comm was missing a battery, or Scott would have bellowed for assistance immediately. Holding the strange device, (silky metal-mesh band, deep-blue face, off-kilter digits) Scott straightened.

He'd heard a slight, pebble-scattering movement off to his right… Something that might have been a very soft footfall. Pivoting, Scott brought the flashlight around.

"John?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere-_

Ten seconds. You had ten seconds to reach air and safety, meanwhile letting the breath from your lungs in a long, desperate sigh. Otherwise, they'd rupture.

Swift impressions of utter silence, absolute, bitter cold and weightlessness. Of his own flesh beginning to swell and crack.

Looking around through drifting pale hair… 9 seconds left, maybe… he saw a storage locker, still sealed. Kicked toward it, scoring soundlessly on some kind of instrument panel, but was getting hard to see, as lens muscles now almost too stiff to alter shape and change focus.

Crossed the airless, burnt-black room, passing a set of holes through which greedy darkness and diamond-hard stars showed.

To the locker, feeling less every moment. One thought: _reach shelter, stay alive._ 7 seconds?

Droplets of blood were beginning to seep through the widening cracks in his skin, first boiling forth, and then crystallizing to floating red hail.

He mashed a swollen hand to the locker control, and it opened, releasing trapped air in a whistling torrent that nearly blew him back across the cabin. But he got a hand on the hatch sill, hooking stiffened fingers around it, somehow.

Able to gasp a little air, then, like he'd just kicked upward from the bottom of the sea, buying his screaming lungs an instant more time.

Shut the hatch, again, leaving trapped an atmosphere like that of Mars; impossibly thin, and so cold his entire body burned. 5 seconds…

But there… a rack of oxygen bottles. He groped for a wrench. Braced himself and smashed the top off of two bottles with the last, spasmodic effort his freeze-drying muscles could produce.

Hung there mid-locker, in a fetal crouch, while air came lapping and nuzzling around him. Eyes closed, tucked up, he pressed his wrist comm… but nothing happened.

Too cold and confused to wonder _what next_, much less _what the hell,_ he managed to open a third bottle. The last. Then he curled tight again, bouncing very slightly from bulkhead rack to hatch.

_Freezing._ Colder than Antarctica. Colder than hell.

But there were noises, finally, communicated through the flexing metal of hull and deck. The craft (Ship? Space station?) was breaking apart?

No. Someone was coming.


	49. Addendum: Terms of Surrender

Okay, to wrap things up a little better before starting the next. Sorry about that.

**Addendum: Terms of Surrender**

_Elsewhere: the broken shell of a gutted space station-_

The sounds… thumpings, bangs and scrapes… had grown closer. The entire craft, perhaps locked onto by something else, had begun to oscillate.

He rattled between supply rack and hatch more violently now, finally putting forth a split and bleeding hand to catch hold of a shelf. There was, his fading vision noted, a label beside the hatch… but it looked wrong, somehow; something about the letters.

No idea how he'd gotten here… where here even _was_… or how to extricate himself.

Something happened with his wrist comm while he hung there, weightless; a brief flickering. Then, transmitted through the hatch came an urgent message in ringing bangs and taps. Not Morse code, though. Or, not quite.

_'Stay calm, son- conserve air- will get you out.'_

He wasn't sure that was possible. Had sustained massive physical damage… but, you know… thought that counts, etc. And the cavalry was trying very hard to arrive.

Only, something else happened, first.

The bulkhead beside him began to glow and to warp, absorbing and melting the storage rack almost before he'd moved his hand. There should have been fire, or an explosion. Instead, the energy produced was transformed at once into writhing, shifting mass. Seconds later, something almost invisible had formed there; a light-warping, metallic arthropod as large as he was.

It struck before the dying young man could act to warn his rescuers.

Leaping from the scarred bulkhead, the probe changed form in midair, descending as a ferro-fluid shroud that snapped around its victim chokingly tight. A combination feeding and respiration tube was next forced between the captured lifeform's jaws and into its throat, then nano-scale wires threaded throughout its primitive nervous system.

1.532 vibrations later, data retrieval had been initiated. Threatened interruption became serious enough to warrant attention 2.1 vibrations thereafter. 5 inadequately shielded organics were (averaged distance) 3.5 radio waves beyond the physical portal, attempting entry. Sterilizing the area would waste energy and alert the targeted world's AI. Needless, at this time.

Reabsorbing its extensions, the probe created and compressed mass enough to tear a planck-duration wormhole. Then it jumped; farther away than small carbon neural assemblies could hope to conceptualize... bearing its prisoner to the nexus.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, a bare and windy plateau-_

Scott's flashlight beam illuminated blond hair, a black tee-shirt, jeans, white sneakers and a look of near total confusion.

"John!" He snapped, sick with relief. "Didn't you hear me calling you? Why didn't you answer me?"

His brother blinked, looking almost as lost as he had at their mother's funeral.

"I don't know…Scott. I…"

The fighter pilot sighed, tucked his flashlight under one arm, and then waved an impatient hand before John's face.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" he demanded.

_"One,_ jackass... Not funny."

Scott snorted.

"Neither is how many times I almost fell, trying to come to your damn rescue! Been up here hitting the bottle all night, or something?"

Coming a little closer, Scott sniffed for alcohol fumes, but there weren't any. In fact, there weren't any smells at all, and considering that John had climbed a mountain to get here, that was quite a feat. No smells of laundry soap, sweat, after-shave, toothpaste… hell, not even that caffeinated gum he always chewed to stay up at night. John had as few scents as though he'd just been taken out of the box.

Scott frowned. Something _felt_ wrong. Holding up the blue wrist comm, he tried another question.

"Where'd you find this? Some kind of alien crash site?"

John took it from him, staring quietly, hopelessly down at the thing. As if sleepwalking, he tried putting the strange wrist comm on, but it was too large for his wrist. Looking up once more at Scott, he shook his head.

"I don't know. Is it mine?"

_"Okay,_ that's it. Fun's over. You and I are headed home, mister, and you're going straight to bed. Tomorrow, it's back to the infirmary. Because, obviously, you're pretty shaken up, still."

…And in no shape for a nighttime descent.

"Uh… you wouldn't happen to have a cell phone, would you, John? I screwed up my wrist comm trying to repair that beacon of yours, and I need something to call Virgil with."

John appeared to consider a moment. Then he said,

"Yeah. In the backpack. It's a PDA… but it works to call with."

Scott hesitated before going after his brother's zippered, pen-diagrammed gear bag. _Damn that wind!_

"Listen, John, why don't you sit down for a minute. And, uh… we don't have to mention any of this to… _wow."_

Turning to cross the telescope site, he'd nearly tripped over John's laptop… or the charred remains thereof. Scott nudged the thing with his foot, playing the flashlight slowly over it. The screen's display membrane had melted entirely away, while the keyboard was now a mass of hardened slag.

"Damn, buddy. How fast were you typing?" Scott joked, while inside himself thinking:

_'Lightning strike. Great. Only John…'_

He reached the backpack a moment later, locating John's PDA with the aid of his flashlight. His brother seemed pretty dazed, but king-sized electrical discharges could do that to you.

"Seriously… sit down and relax, John. Virge'll be up here before you know it, so happy for the chance to test-fly one of those air sleds, he'll probably kiss you."

Scott punched in Virgil's comm code, meanwhile keeping up a stream of light chatter to hide his concern. He'd feel a whole lot better when his brother was safe at home, and everything returned to normal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Catastrophic failure-_

The Braman-Alien Intelligence had seized John Tracy.

_Fatal Error-_

Attempts to acquire new genetic data blocked.

_System corrupted-_

There were no allowable options remaining… except capitulation.


End file.
